


TURN: One Hundred and Eighty

by Legume_Shadow



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: A Funny Thing Happened on the Way To Rewriting History, Alternate History, Alternate Universe, AwwwHistoryNoooo, BAMFs, Black Humor, Caleb is an Enabler, Crack, Crack Fic With Time Travel, Culper Ring, Dark Humor, Definite Crack, Even The Title Is a Pun In Itself, F/M, Gen, Humers are Being Aligned, If History Had A Hairy Conniption This Would Be It, Inspired by AC3's Tyranny of King Washington, Inspired by Back to the Future, Lasers - Pew Pew Pew, Madness I tell You!, Makes Fun Of the Tallmadge/OFC Pairings, Mildly Military, More Ridiculous Humor Than You Can Shake A Fist At, Powered by Spy Tropes, Read Not In A Serious Manner But In A Satirical Manner, Satire, Seriously Satire, Silly shenanigans, Spycraft, The Future Is A Strange World, Time Travel, WTF, Washington Is A Badass No Matter What Incarnation, World of Badasses, Written While Sober and Enjoyed While Drunk, anachronisms abound, lots of puns, puns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2018-04-23 17:49:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 38
Words: 567,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4886050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legume_Shadow/pseuds/Legume_Shadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A "little" dose of ridiculous humor for a universe that has seen too many serious and fluffy stories.  Because every fandom needs a crack fic.  Time travel and badass battles, 'nuff said.<br/>--or--<br/>If there was a fork in the road when Benjamin Tallmadge was appointed as Head of Intelligence, history decided to skip happily down that lane and gave itself indigestion.  Parallels S1, S2, S3, and S4.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We're Not In New Jersey Anymore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shadow_Chaser](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadow_Chaser/gifts).



> First Publishing: September/October 2015, AO3  
> Disclaimer: All characters (except for the ones created by me) belong to their respective owners. No profit is being made from this work of fiction.
> 
> Any episodic transcription was done purely by me (and my DVDs) and modified to fit this crazy-ass fic. Also, mild swearing by a few characters, but not enough to raise it to "M". Please keep your hands within the vessel and ensure that your belts are tightened. You may now proceed with humorous caution.

**Chapter 1: We're Not In New Jersey Anymore**

 

The transition between the early winter and the heart of winter in the northeast was not always brutal, but it always started with the deepening of the crisp, clean smell of dry air that was constantly tinged with the scent of burning firewood. Whether that firewood smell came from quaint two-story houses dotting the countryside, or from the discharge of cannonade in the battlefields that ran perilously close to civilian houses, it always smelled stronger as winter began to settle throughout the region.

Faint, audible crunch of boots echoed through the vast coastal plain of New Jersey, or at least that's what it sounded like to the two people trying to make their way through neutral territory and back to their camp's safety. It could not be helped through – it had been an incredibly dry season, especially during harvest time, and now the leaves that had fallen off the trees were doing nothing but amplify the sound of their footsteps. Surprisingly enough, first snow had not yet fallen in the region, even though it was a few days into the new year. Still, there had been no one sighted for miles and miles as the two slowly made their way through the wheat fields and forests that surrounded the fields.

“Don't say it, Sackett,” the constantly jolly, fresh-faced and taller of the two companions suddenly spoke up as they finally finished their hike across a too-tall field of unharvested wheat.

“Say what, Brewster?” Sackett answered, though not in an adversarial manner.

“Don't say it,” Brewster repeated. “We're not there yet.”

“Yeah, but I thought at least part of the camp started after we clear this forest,” Sackett said, gesturing to the rather intimidating gnarl of bare trees and brown-covered ground “You know, they'll definitely hear us coming before we even get a quarter way into the forest. Why don't we just sneak through the fields adjacent to the camp...give the boys a test.”

Brewster sighed in exasperation, saying, “You and your 'tests'. I swear, Sackett, you're the sneakiest bastard there is on God's green earth. You're going to eventually give old Georgie a heart-attack.”

“General Washington isn't even that old yet,” Sackett paused for a moment before saying, “Fine, we'll take the easier route. Don't blame me if they come rushing at us with their rifles and pistols bared and knock you out cold. I'm not waking you up with those sniffer salts again.”

“Don't expect you to,” Brewster answered, smiling before clapping Sackett on the back, and started off and into the forest of bare trees.

Sackett merely paused for a moment shrugging slightly with a small 'hmph' before trailing after the lieutenant. As predicted and expected, their footsteps through the crunchy undergrowth did generate a lot of noise, but what it attracted was not what was expected. There were far away shouts and moments later, figures dressed in colors that were unrecognizable to either of the two emerged from the greys of the far away trees. What was expected to be people dressed in black-brown-green colors, carrying rifles that were similar to the make and build of Brewster's rifle, were dressed in a motley assortment of dark blue with red trimmings or brown, occasionally splashed with beige, brown, or cream colored pants, and dark boots. The rifles that they carried and were being rapidly pointed at the two of them looked positively ancient – wooden rifles and flintlocks that only Brewster and Sackett had seen in museums.

“Uh,” Brewster stuttered, as the two of them stopped where they were as men of all shapes and sizes surrounded them, clearly surprised but coherent enough that they thought of them as a clear and present danger and threat. “Are you guys reenactment actors?”

“Someone go alert the general that we have captured spies!” one of the men shouted.

“Carrie, I don't think we're in New Jersey anymore,” Sackett muttered as the two them raised their hands up in surrender. The weapons that these people carried may have looked like museum-quality gunpowder rifles, but somehow, their configuration and the tiny details that were etched not only on the rifles but also on the uniforms that these people wore seemed a little too authentic. Reenactments of the various wars that their country had been through had stopped over twenty years ago; ever since the 'motherland' had reconquered them.

“Well, Natalie,” Brewster answered, letting one of the men take her rifle from her, but not before flashing said man with a smile full of teeth, “It's been good knowing you.”

* * *

Clearly Washington was intensely keen on exploring the idea of a spy chain, otherwise, he wouldn't have completely ignored Scott's request for a court-martial. Somewhere within Captain Benjamin Tallmadge, there was a heavy sigh of relief for the stay of court-martial, but also a storm of anxiety brewing for what was currently being discussed. He saw the merits of what Washington wanted, but as the sun continued to set and cast an orange-gold glow into the house, he was starting to realize just how futile the spy chain would be.

Trust.

That was the key to everything, and with the lack of confidence from not only from Scott, but also Sackett and surprisingly from Washington – why wouldn't he tell him how Abe's name became known to him – this furtive notion of a spy chain was doomed. Picking up the tin cup of coffee, he took a sip and bit back the flicker of distaste from appearing on his face as the long-cold, bitter brew sunk down into his stomach. Scott and Sackett were currently engaged in a rather heated discussion about civilians within the chain and how they would be a liability if – ' _when'_ Scott had emphasized – they were ever caught.

There was a sudden knock on the door to the house and silence befell the two arguing gentlemen as Ben, closest to the entrance to the foyer, strode across the wooden floor and answered it. A regular, corporal-ranked by the looks of his uniform, stood on the steps and immediately stated, “Sir, we've captured two spies.”

However, instead of immediately answering, Ben had noticed that there was something strange in the inflection of the corporal's message. “Spies?” he inquired, but before he could elaborate on his question, the heavy footsteps of Scott and the lighter ones of Sackett were heard as the two men entered the foyer.

“Sir!” the corporal stated, as his eyes shifted immediately past Ben's left shoulder to see Scott approaching. “We've captured spies!” he repeated with a touch more enthusiasm than what Ben thought was necessary. “We're keeping them in the cellar.”

“Execute them,” Scott said not a moment after the corporal had finished his brief report. “The longer they live, the more chance they'll have to escape and report our numbers to the enemy.”

“But, sir,” the corporal started, hesitating and surprising Ben with just the sheer amount of uncertainty gracing his expression, “the spies are women...”

“What?!” Scott bellowed, before muttering something incoherent to Ben's ears, and pushed past them. Scott strode across the side of the house, shoulders set forward slightly and seemingly bleeding an air of anger all around him. Ben, along with the young corporal, and Sackett followed the tall man's hurried pace until they got to the back of the house where two guards were posted on either side of the closed cellar doors. With an impatient gesture, the two guardsmen opened the cellar doors and Scott quickly descended into the dark depths. Ben followed, and while the cellar was aptly lit with several lanterns, it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust as the cellar doors closed after Sackett had also entered. The corporal had wisely remained outside or had returned to his other duties within the camp.

As shades of darkness finally resolved into more coherent shapes that pointed to two strangely dressed people that seemed to be bound quite tightly to chairs, with gags of rag tied over their mouths, he heard Scott sharply say, “What in God's name is this, Lieutenant?”

“Uh sir,” Ben heard Caleb speak up from the corner of the cellar, “they were...fighting...when they came to, so we had to knock them out again and...”

“At least loosen their bindings,” Scott said, gesturing to the clearly uncomfortable looks on the two women's faces.

Ben took a few steps forward as he ran a critical eye over the two women, noting that the strange matching and loose clothing that they wore nearly disguised them from their true gender. One of the women looked a bit fuller in face than the other, but both clearly had tied up their dark hair in an usually flat and slick-backed hairstyle. The only way he would have known that they were women, apart from them speaking – he hoped – was that both had the clear markings of softer facial structure that defined women in general. It was a rudimentary assessment, since the only women he knew were from his hometown, and all of them wore dresses and not strangely colored, slightly baggy clothing with matching patterned trousers, and dark boots.

However, the general did not get another word out when one of the women, suddenly snapped her eyes straight at him, widening with clear surprise, and yelled something quite muffled behind the gag. Ben could feel Scott's harsh gaze turn upon him as he frowned and glanced over at Caleb, who shrugged; clearly the women had not reacted to anything after they had woken up, except for now. The clatter of chairs being skittered and pounded into the wooden floor returned his attention to the commotion at hand as he saw the other woman attempt to kick, or what looked like the quick shuffle of tied feet to the legs of the chair, to try to silence her companion.

“Curious,” Sackett spoke up, immediately silencing the commotion as Ben felt the spymaster's hand upon his shoulder. Taking a step back to yield his observing space to the older man, he watched Sackett approach the two women, both of whom clearly calmed down slightly, but still carried defiant looks in their eyes. Sackett shifted his head to the side slightly before glancing back at him. “Hmph,” was all the man said before tapping the bottom of his chin. “They recognize you, Captain.”

Puzzled, he glanced over at Scott, who was frowning, and ignored Caleb's bark of laughter in response to Sackett's statement as he said, “I have never seen these women before and do not know them.”

“Hmph,” Sackett interrupted whatever Scott was about to say as he adjusted his spectacles slightly and turned back to their prisoners. “Let's see what they have to say.”

“Now wait just a moment--” Scott spluttered, taking a step forward in a vain attempt to stop Sackett from freeing at least one of the women of her gag.

“Holy fucking shit, guys!” the woman exploded in a shrill and angry tone. “What the fuck are you doing? Who the fuck are you two?!”--that was directed at both Sackett and Scott-- “Benny-boy! Don't you fucking recognize us?! It's us, Carrie and Natalie!”

The woman beside her yelled something quite muffled through her gag that was clearly directed at the freed woman, but Ben could not make heads or tails of the tirade which was clearly directed at her captors. He understood some of the words that she spewed with quite a bit of venom he thought not possible from a woman, but a few of the other words were very strange. There was also a nagging suspicion running through his thoughts that the words he did not understand were definitely epithets. While he himself was not prone to cursing, there were times when he clearly used it...especially when it involved Caleb being annoying.

“Benny-boy?” he heard Caleb repeat, and glanced over to see his friend with a look that was between confusion and smarmy. “Did ya meet them while at Yale?”

Before Ben could give Caleb the most irritated look he could manage, the woman yelled, “Fuck no! Westpoint, you asshole! Class of '73. And who the fuck are you, you bearded twat?!”

“Shut up, shut up,” they heard the other woman hiss as Sackett stepped back, holding both cloth gags in his hand. “We're definitely not in New Jersey anymore, and that is not the same Ben Tallmadge that we know! _Look_ at their uniforms, Carrie! Look at it! They're not reenactment actors!”

Somehow, the woman's words got through to her companion, and slowly, both of them went still as their eyes looked around, not full of fear as Ben might have expected, curiously enough, full of confusion. While he was curious as to the statement of them not being in New Jersey, it seemed that something profound was going on, and that perhaps, they would receive their answers soon if they let the women continue to talk. A quick glance over at Scott told him that the general was thinking the same thing. He could not tell what Sackett was thinking, due to the man standing partially in front of him.

“Fuck,” the first woman, Carrie, as the other woman had called her, said after a moment. That word earned yet another glare from her companion, and considering how much ire the woman drew from her companion whenever it was uttered, Ben mentally filed that particular word away as a curse word. The woman certainly had a very vulgar mouth. “Sorry. Um, what year is it?”

“The year of our Lord, seventeen-seventy-seven,” Scott said, with a clear tone of hostility and annoyance gracing the words. “Who are you and who are you spying for? How do you know Captain Tallmadge? Speak now and we may grant both of you clemency in your sentences.”

“Oh, fuck,” the first woman said yet again, this time earning a clearly exaggerated eye roll from her companion. He wasn't sure whether or not he was offended by the clearly uncouth sensibilities being displayed by both women. Bar maids, especially the one that Caleb had described to him behaved in such a manner, but something within him told him that these women were not bar maids. They had no fear shining through their eyes, and clearly thought of Scott and the others within this cellar not a terrible threat to their lives. Any sensible person, woman or not, would be absolutely terrified of what was about to befall them, especially if they had been caught spying.

“We're definitely not in New Jersey, at least the New Jersey we know, anymore,” the other woman muttered just loud enough for them to hear, though it sounded as if she was talking to either herself or to her companion. “How the hell did we get here?”

“You might want to see this, General,” Caleb spoke up, silencing the women for the moment as Ben saw him pick up a rather large object that looked sort of like a rifle from a table nearest to the wall of the cellar. He had not noticed the object first, due to how dark it looked and thought it was just a shadow being cast by the lanterns. Now that Caleb was holding it up, it looked so strange, so odd, that he reached out to touch it, trying to make heads or tails of it.

“What is that?” Scott said, taking the object from Caleb and turned it over in his hands. There was a barrel, but it was incredibly thick and blocky. The area that looked like someone would shoulder it to ensure that the recoil was absorbed properly when firing was also bulkier than he expected, but surprisingly contoured as if it was supposed to fit snug against the body. The trigger, though, looked like an ordinary one that one would find on a rifle, except slicked in the same dark color as the rest of the rifle.

“That, was on her,” Caleb gestured to the first ungagged woman, “or so I'm told by the boys outside.” Ben saw his friend lift up a smaller, more rectangular L-shaped object that looked like a miniature version of an officer's pistol, except blockier. “This,” Caleb said as Scott passed the rifle-like object to Ben who took it and noted how light it was despite its size, before taking the pistol-like object, “was on the other lady. Their outfits have pockets and I was told at first that the boys didn't know they were women until they searched them. They left them alone after that, but this is what was also found.”

The nearest lantern was unhooked and panned over the table, and he could not help but stare in utter shock at just what was displayed. Several small rectangular-like objects were laid out, a couple of them bigger than others, along with an assortment of knives that looked to be hunting blades graced the ends of the table. The rectangular objects looked as dark as the rifle-like and pistol-like objects, and he could only guess that they were ammunition of some sort, designed to work with the objects. Women normally did not carry rifles or pistols – these two women were very strange and unnerved him more than he cared to admit. However, it was two objects in the center of the table that caught his attention.

Gingerly placing the rifle-like object back down on a cleared spot on the table, he picked up one of the metallic objects, noting that two small rounded rectangular plates, roughly the length of his thumb with a width of just a little more than a quarter of his index finger, was looped in a thin chain. Bringing the object closer to the lantern that Caleb was holding, he carefully examined what was imprinted on the raised surface of the metal plates. “C-Brewster?” he questioned, glancing up at Caleb, who shrugged, before looking back at the first woman who had an oddly calm look upon her face.

“Lieutenant Carrie Brewster, US Army,” the woman stated. “Serial number one-zero-alpha-foxtrot-seven-niner-six-dash-five-zulu-four.”

“US Army?” Scott pounced on the proclamation, as Ben absently placed the chain necklace back down and picked up the other one. However, he didn't glance at it as he turned his attention to the general, noting that there was a very strange eagerness to the man's demeanor – as if the general hoped that the spies they had captured would have valuable information. Whatever they would get now would be jointly presented to Washington when he returned, but something did not sit right with Ben as he continued to silently observe.

“United States of America Army,” the woman continued, though her tone had clearly turned into one that felt hostile, though it strangely sounded quite agreeable to his ears. “Westpoint Academy graduate, class of twenty-one-seventy-three.”

* * *

_Later...nightfall..._

 

“So, she then hangs a black petticoat on the drying line, to signal to my courier when the intelligence is ready,” Ben stated as the sounds of Sackett scratching away on a piece of parchment with his quill pen filled the occasional silence in the house. The echoes of booted feet on the floor belonging to Scott also punctuated the silence, though the beats on the floor were erratic, distractive.

“Not bad,” Sackett said in an offhand manner.

“She hangs napkins,” he continued, holding up one that had not been put away after the tepid and distinctly uncomfortable evening meal they had, “to signify which cove is safe for the rendezvous--”

“Wait,” Sackett suddenly exclaimed, dropping the quill and holding up his hands to stop him from speaking further. “Rendezvous?!” The action had also caught Scott's attention as he re-entered the room with a pensive look on his face. Ben knew that part of that look was attributed to the disturbing things they had heard from the female spies still locked up in the cellar, but the other part was dedicated to the continuation of their discussion into whether or not a spy chain was feasible.

“Tell me your agent meets your courier in person,” Sackett said, looking slightly apprehensive.

“Well...of course,” he answered, wondering why Sackett was confirming what he had already stated.

“Failure!” the man exclaimed. “Death! No...no, the courier and agent are never in the same place at the same time.”

He frowned as he glanced up at Scott, seeing that the general was merely observing the discussion and would be providing no vocal support for his arguments. “But, then how do you expect for them to make the transfer?” he asked, focusing back on Sackett.

Sackett gave a noisy sigh as Ben noticed that the older man clearly rolled his eyes up at the heavens – a gesture that greatly reminded him of what had happened mere hours earlier. Clearly, even after the man himself had redirected their attention back up to continue their spy chain discussion, the strangeness and strangers were exerting an influence. Ben had initially wanted to claim witchcraft as soon as he had heard the words from the woman, Carrie Brewster, as influencing the two women's mind or perhaps they were addled enough that they needed to be removed from society as a whole, but neither of those trains of thought had sat well with him. Something within the shadows of the flickering lanterns in the cellar that had played across their faces had told him that the women, or at least the woman named Carrie Brewster was speaking the truth.

The other woman, a N-Sackett as the metal plates had stated, clearly Natalie or some variation of that name as the other woman had identified her with, had remained silent. It was during that silence that Sackett had reminded them of the discussion they were supposed to be having before Washington returned, and had bustled out. The women had been left ungagged, but Scott had given Caleb an order to re-gag the women if they started screaming for help. So far, nothing had been heard.

“You,” Sackett sighed before leaning forward again, “pre-determine the location to drop...that is to hide _le lettre de confidentiale_ in question.” The older man stood up and started to approach the clock that was located in the foyer, waving a piece of folded parchment. “You then arrange a later time for retrieval.” Ben also stood up, taking the small note book with him as he watched as Sackett opened the glass door to the head of the clock and placed the piece of parchment in before winding the clock back to six. “A dead drop,” Sacket proclaimed as chimes rang, “to ensure that your agents don't drop dead from being caught _enflangrante delictum_.”

He had to admit, the idea had a lot of merit, and as he jotted it down, he heard Scott say, “Which demonstrates the folly of this scheme. If a single link is broken, the entire chain is rendered useless.”

“Which is why,” Sackett said, returning to the room as did Scott, “we use encryption, sir. To shield the men, not the message.” As both of them sat back down, Sackett continued to ask, “Captain, which enciphering method have you been using thus far? Rozefuur? Trademius? Personally, I prefer Duma.”

Guiltily, Ben opened his mouth to answer that what messages that had been passed so far were not encrypted, but he couldn't, and unfortunately, Sackett took that opportunity to look up. The man's face fell like a stone slab as he heard him say, “Please tell me that you're using encryption.”

He mutely shook his head negative. Somehow, disappointing Sackett made him feel like a child again. “Well...I was told you were a graduate of Yale,” Sackett stated, frowning.

That expression, coupled with the clear disappointment in the level of knowledge that he knew that he was displaying irritated him, but he wasn't sure if it was himself that he was irritated at or the fact that there was a clear lack of confidence within Sackett's tone. “Yes, sir, class of seventy-three,” he stated.

“One can suppose that you've studied Greek, Latin, and Hebrew?”

He voiced his affirmative in the same languages that the older man had listed before taking his seat, saying, “I am a quick study, Mr. Sackett.”

“Then at least we have somewhere to start,” Sackett said before taking a thin, rectangular note book from his side of the table and tossed it over to him. “Then commit this to memory.”

Ben placed his quill and notebook down and gingerly picked up the book as Scott said, “We don't have time for this. The commander expects results, like the discovery of those spies today, not word play. Clearly the British have developed new and advance weaponry and it is things and information like those captured women which need to be delivered onto his desk.”

“You don't think that they're telling the truth?” Ben ventured as he flipped through the pages of Sackett's notebook.

“Addled in the head more likely, or just lying,” Scott answered. “Clearly trained by the British to confuse us and ensure that we do them no harm. Once we retrieve whatever information they have about troops and these new weaponry, we can send them along their way.”

“And how, General?” Sackett immediately asked, lifting his head up. “How do you propose to extract information from them?”

Ben found himself also giving the general an expectant look, as if hoping that the answer that Scott would give was nothing untoward or unpleasant. Spies or no, he did not condone the treatment of women, no matter how strangely dressed or spoken, in a harsh manner. They were at war, but war or not, a gentleman's decorum was to be maintained – at least towards the more fairer of the sexes. He knew that Scott was clearly irritated that both he and Caleb had not shown Simcoe a proper politeness during the man's time in captivity.

“I see,” Sackett said after a moment of silence. “Putting that aside, we're ahead of the game, thanks to Captain Tallmadge here. Clearly, I usually have to concoct a legend to embed agents into enemy territory. A poultry trader, a fish monger, a schoolteacher. It requires a wardrobe, documentation, and training. The brilliance of Mr. Woodhull is his life – it's his legend, and there's no reason to invent a false one – he's already living it.”

“Who pays for him?” Scott asked.

“Hm?” Sackett questioned, looking a bit puzzled.

“Well, if the farmer's not farming, who pays for his expenses? His food, lodging, money to bribe sources?”

Sackett cracked a walnut as he said, “We do, of course.”

“Congress will never approve intelligence salaries while we try to cobble together bounties for our regulars!”

“Congress doesn't need to know about it. We'll draw from a secret fund, authorized by Washington to be used for discretion.”

Fed up, Scott pushed his chair back, got up, and left. “General, please!” Ben tried to call after him, “we've been asked to explore a chain of agents that might work. Some debates are to be expected.”

“Explore whatever you want, Tallmadge,” Scott answered, returning with his coat in hand. “As the Head of Intelligence, I will never approve of this. It's time you understood how the chain of command works.” The general picked up his tricorn and left, letting the door slam close.

“Huh,” Sackett muttered, chewing on a piece of walnut, “that was predictable.”

As much as Ben wanted to sigh in exasperation, he held it in and merely closed Sackett's notebook. Washington wanted the feasibility to be explored, but with the lack of trust and the vehement disagreement between Scott and Sackett – this entire juncture was doomed to fail even before the onset.

* * *

_Meanwhile..._

 

“United States of America Army, huh?”

“We're from the future, squirrel-beard,” the woman, identified as Carrie Brewster and apparently a ranked officer within what he thought was a fictitious army, said in a sweet tone, though Caleb could clearly see the anger in her eyes. Had he not examined the weaponry that the two women had on them, along with hearing the brief interrogation that General Scott had attempted to conduct before being interrupted by the civilian Sackett and surprisingly also by Ben, he would have thought the two women as bar maids with British leanings attempting to pull the wool over the Continentals.

“All right,” he said, taking a chair by the table that contained the various weaponry, along with what looked like identification for the two women that were engraved in metal plates, and flipped it around before sitting down. Placing his arms in a casual fashion on back of the chair, he continued to say, “Let's say that you're telling the truth, Ms. Brewster. It can't be a coincidence that you know Captain Tallmadge.” He would be damned if he did not do everything in his power to protect his best friend, women spies or not.

“Oh no,” Brewster said, frowning slightly, “if you actually do believe us, and that's a big if, squirrel-beard, its not _Ms._ Brewster, its Lieutenant. I fucking earned my rank through four grueling years of military school, asshole. Don't know what rank you are, but given the conditions here and where we are, you probably just got picked up and recruited into a cushy position by your Tallmadge's influence.”

“Carrie,” the other woman groaned in quite an displeased tone. “Really? Do you really want to antagonize our captors?”

“You might want to listen to your fellow lady, _Lieutenant_ ,” Caleb said, tipping his head slightly towards the other woman, smiling slightly. He had already mentally filed away the words 'fuck' and 'asshole' as curse words and despite himself, there was a sense of perverse pleasure rolling through his mind at just how filthy of a mouth this Lieutenant Brewster had. Had she not been a woman, this Brewster-woman would have fit right in with his whaling crewmates. “As for 'our' Ben Tallmadge, he's the only one I know. You don't happen to know or have encountered his brother, Samuel, have you?”

“Samuel, no,” Brewster answered, shaking her head slightly. “I do know a Samantha, and she's a Tallmadge too, though cousin to the US Army Major Ben Tallmadge that we know.”

Caleb was silent for a very long few minutes as he found his smile disappearing and a frown starting to work its way through his lips. What had the British done to these women to have them tell such outlandish tales? And despite a part of him continuing to maintain that these were British spies, albeit very frighteningly strange ones, doubt was starting to slowly grow in his heart. If there was merit to their story from being in the future, then how on God's good green earth did these women come to be? It was already enough that he could barely wrap his mind around the fact that _women_ were in the army, especially as officers, but the appearance of these women and their strange gadgets...

“So we win the war?” he cautiously asked, almost hesitating in trying to get the question past his lips.

“Not for a few long years and with many casualties,” the other woman, Natalie Sackett, quietly answered. “Civilians and military.”

“We can't say anymore than that,” Brewster piped up. “Us being here may have already drastically altered our own timelines.”

“Then how'd you come to be in New Jersey?”

“So I guess we're still in the great toxic waste dump of a state,” Brewster answered, though it sounded more like a casual quip than a true answer. Caleb wasn't sure what a 'toxic waste dump' was, but whatever it was, it sounded a bit flippant and insulting to the colony. “We were trying to rendezvous with our battalion at Morristown, the 2nd Legionnaires. Our commanding officer is the Major Ben Tallmadge that we know, obviously not the Ben Tallmadge that you know. We were passing through the fields on the outskirts of the town and next thing you know, we're surrounded by your boys.”

“But your Major and the Captain here look like each other?” he asked, intense curiosity now settling into him. It was a fascinating story, and one that he wasn't sure if it was still a tall tale or not – but the conviction within their tones told him that these women _believed_ in what they were saying.

“Well, considering how dark it is here, yeah, I think they look alike. Who knows, maybe if we can get some more light in here, I can give you a better answer. Oh wait, electricity has not been invented yet. Damn you Edison and Tesla, for existing at a later time...and damn you for no running water and proper toilets!”

“Who?”

“No one,” Brewster said, shaking her head. “Two people who will hopefully exist in a hundred years or so, providing that we didn't fuck up the timeline too much.”

Caleb nodded, though he was slightly unsure whether or not he understood all that had just been said. However, Sackett spoke up a moment later, saying, “We're not fading yet, which means somewhere in the future, we still exist.”

“Fading?” he questioned.

“Well, if we're here, it means that our ancestors have not keeled over and died yet throughout the many centuries that separate you from the year we're from and we still exist. My memories are still intact, which unfortunately means that yep...we're still rebelling against the Holy Empire of Britannia.”

“The British Empire reconquered us?”

“Reconquered most of the world in the past seventy years from our perspective,” Sackett answered. “Holy Queen Georgette and her predecessor, Holy King Charles, have been systematically reclaiming and recolonizing a lot of the known world under the umbrella of a unified chain peace between formerly warring countries. They're under the banner of the Holy Empire of Britannia...and the Pope had blessed their crusade.”

“That is a terrible perspective of the future, missy,” he couldn't help but say.

“So you have our names, may we have yours?” Brewster asked.

Despite himself, Caleb could not help but give a bark of laughter before he said, “Lieutenant _Caleb_ Brewster on special assignment and attached to the 2 nd Continental Light Dragoons.”

Strange surprise flitted through the faces of both Brewster and her companion as Brewster said, “Oh. Huh. Look, I'm really sorry that I called you a 'bearded twat' earlier, along with all those other names. Please accept my sincere apologies, Lieutenant.”

As strange as it was, Caleb knew an apology when he heard one and this one sounded quite genuine. “Apology accepted, Lieutenant.”

He still had his doubts about the validity of what he heard, but with them being forthcoming with information, no matter how strange it was, perhaps the civilian that Washington seemed to have placed an enormous amount of trust in, Nathaniel Sackett, would be able to decipher their words. As much as he wanted Ben to hear the words that had just been spoken, he still did not fully trust the women, especially since they reacted quite wildly to his presence earlier. It was enough that Ben had a personal grudge against Robert Rogers, which was probably reciprocated if the 'message' left for Rogers in that Connecticut safehouse had been found and delivered. Caleb was determined to not place another threat upon his best friend's head.

“If you'll excuse me, ladies,” he said, getting up from his chair and tromped up the stairs before pounding on the cellar door. It cracked open as he saw the guards peek in. “Hey, fetch Dunmore will ya? I need him to keep an eye on our prisoners for a few minutes.”

One of the guards gave a curt nod and quickly left to go find the enlisted man that he had identified. It took a few moments, but soon, the young man named Dunmore came trotting back with the guard and Caleb grabbed the young man quite roughly by the front of his uniform. “Do not touch them. I'll be back soon and if I hear any word of ill treatment from them, we will have more than words.”

He didn't know why he trusted the words of the women more than Dunmore, but he didn't dwell on the thought too much, for a larger one was weighing on his mind. It was his mistake, his anger and frustration at the cellar where they had kept Simcoe that had nearly cost Ben's commission. It had been put aside with Washington's apparent unspoken dismissal of Ben's court-martial, but he knew that mistakes such as that could not happen ever again. He was harsh to the young man still gripped in his fist, but it was only because he felt the guilt nag at him. He needed to ensure that these two prisoners were kept safe until they would be properly dealt with.

“Yes, sir,” Dunmore stuttered slightly before Caleb let him go and pushed past him.

Biting cold nipped at the tip of his nose as a chilly wind blew by, bringing snow flakes from the bare trees surrounding the camp to the ground. Tightening his coat around him a little further, he hurried to the house and gave a nod to the two guards standing before the entrance. They barely acknowledged him before he opened the door and slipped inside. With the warmth of the house bathing him, he shook himself for a brief moment before walking a few steps down the foyer to where he saw the first candle light spill out of a room.

Peeking in, he couldn't help but smile as he saw Ben sitting slightly hunched over the desk, looking at a larger notebook from time to time while madly scribbling away with his quill in the small notebook he always carried with him. He opened his mouth to call out his friend's name, but stopped himself. There was an intense look of concentration on Ben's face, and Caleb suddenly did not want to disturb him. The matter would wait, because it was Sackett whom he was seeking.

Continuing down the foyer hall, he peeked into other rooms and surprisingly, did not see General Scott present in any of them. However, at the end of the hall, there was another flickering of candle light and he stopped at the frame of the doorway. Nathaniel Sackett was sitting at a desk, scribbling away at something, but surrounding his desk was quite a mess of crumpled pieces of parchment. He heard the older man issue a noise a frustration before placing his quill down and crumpling the sheaf he had been writing on.

“Mr. Sackett, sir?” he politely began, knocking on the frame slightly to get the man's attention.

“Ah, yes, erm, Lieutenant Brewster, wasn't it?” Sackett said, looking up with owlish-like eyes before blinking as if to clear them.

“Yeah,” he answered, “You may want to listen in on what our prisoners are saying. It's strange, and if I'd thought witchcraft were at work, I would have already called for a priest.”

“But you didn't,” Sackett pointed out. “Which means that on some level within your mind, you believe what they've said. So, what have they said?”

“I think you should hear it for yourself, sir,” he said. “General Scott as well.”

“Pish-posh,” Sackett dismissively said, waving a hand in the air. “He nearly frightened those women half to death. The interrogation of spies, especially female spies requires patience. A lot of it. We are not savages who would threaten such delicate creatures, even if they are dressed in such strange clothes and speak in a very odd manner, if a bit uncouth.”

Caleb paused for a moment before nodding slightly at the man's words. He did have a point and from what he had seen earlier, clearly the discussion that Scott, Ben, and Sackett had been having almost the entire day was influencing Scott's irritable mood. What little trust that had been built between him and the women did not need to crumble into ashes.

“Well, then let us be off, shan't we?” Sackett said, giving him a brief smile as he stood up and strode out of the room.

* * *

_The next morning..._

 

“What, you know them all, trust them all?” Sackett asked, through it sounded more like a statement than a question.

“We all grew up together,” Ben answered, kicking the dirt that surrounded the campfire.

He had been up nearly the entire evening, studying and taking notes out of Sackett's codebook and somehow had fallen asleep on the desk. Morning had found pieces of parchment stuck to the side of his face as the sounds of Sackett doing whatever he did in the morning caused the noise that woke him up. Now though, with the crisp cold mid-morning air and sun invigorating him, he found himself briefly surveying the ground before him. The light coating of snow on the cold, hard ground did nothing to deter the hardier campfires that dotted the camp. Even the tiny splash of dirt that managed to get caught in the campfire merely caused a small hiss that sounded more like a displeased possum than something menacing. Still, he ceased his actions and returned his attention to Sackett's boiling pot of water that contained a single egg.

“Childhood friends,” Sacket murmured, though Ben was not sure that he heard admiration in the tone of the man's voice. “Fascinating. Wouldn't have thought to try that.”

“It wasn't exactly planned,” he admitted, unsure if the praise was warranted.

“Don't tell anyone that! Don't tell anyone else Mr. Woodhull's name.” The older man plucked the egg out with a spoon before rubbing it with a towel in hand. He then placed the towel that had been used to dry the shell of the egg before reaching for a saucer that contained some liquid and a small sharpened branch within it. “Time to gift Mr. Woodhull an alias.” As Sackett began to scrawl something on the egg, he continued to say, “One by which other agents shall know him as.”

Ben frowned as he thought he misheard Sackett and asked, “I'm sorry, the other agents?”

He received a grunt of affirmation as his answer before Sackett said, “Our plans for your farmer are needed to nurture the seed that I have planted for the last year and a half. One of them is sprouting right now – right under the enemy's nose.”

Ben pressed his lips together as he realized the implications of Sackett's shrewd plan. He couldn't risk his friends' lives, especially with what Sackett had implied was happening. “I'm sorry, but this is not how its going to work. You see, Abe...he's a very cautious man. He won't meet with anybody he doesn't already know.”

There was also the matter that Anna was involved, and given how the captured British women spies were treated and reacted to said treatment last night, he knew that Anna did not have the fortitude that the two women still in the cellar had – those two had clearly been well-trained to not divulge key information and feint by whoever had trained them. He could not risk his friends' lives, especially since they were civilian.

“He'll have to,” Sackett insisted, as he held the egg to the fire for a few moments before removing it and blowing on the shell.

“No, he won't,” Ben argued. “He'll quit, is what he'll do.”

“I thought he was your friend,” Sackett stated, rubbing the shell of the egg on the sleeve of his coat.

“Yes, which is exactly why he trusts me to protect him.”

Sackett made a noise of agreement before handing him the egg, saying, “Only that which is concealed is protected. We can even conceal his name.” As Ben examined the egg, looking for the writing that he had clearly seen etched on moment ago, Sackett continued to say, “Luckily for you, I am a master in the art of concealment.”

Ben cracked the hard-boiled egg open and peeled the shell off. However, as he turned the egg, he saw the writing to which Sackett had scrawled upon earlier. [Mr. W.] it said. Glancing up, he saw the shrewd look pass over the older man's features before disappearing into the depths of a neutral, if not indifferent expression. He had a feeling that Sackett had just silently evaluated him for some task or another, but what it was, he didn't know and wasn't sure if it would be answered.

* * *

_Nightfall, again..._

 

General Washington's abrupt entrance into the house was unexpected, but Ben supposed that he should have expected it. The three of them, reconvened for the presentation of debate results, stood up, waiting for their commander to acknowledge his readiness for their reports. As Washington removed his cloak with a slight flourished parting of his hands, one of his guards took it and quickly left.

Washington turned to face them, and quietly said, “General, have we come to a consensus?”

“Your Excellency,” Scott began, “we believe that traditional reconnaissance is the way forward, for it depends on as little variable as possible who would be trusted to carry out and follow orders.”

Ben saw Washington's sharp eyes flick over to him as Washington asked, “Captain, what say you?”

As much as he wanted to advocate Sackett's plans, he knew that it was impossible, and it all boiled down to what that one thought that had crossed his mind earlier yesterday. “I...I concur with the general, sir,” he admitted. Not surprisingly, he heard Sackett 'hmph' in indignation. “The chain of agents,” he continued, determined to ensure that Washington knew why he was saying what he was saying for he had a gut feeling that this would be his only opportunity to make his opinions known with little consequence. “It requires trust, and in that resource, I'm afraid that we find ourselves lacking.”

“You're speaking now of your men on Long Island?” Washington asked.

“No sir, I'm speaking of the men in this room,” he said, feeling bolder than he had been in a while. His words were received with a shrewd look that briefly graced Washington's face, while Scott merely gave him a puzzled look. “Sir, for a conspiracy like this one to function, we would be needing to keep secrets from the enemy, from congress, even from our own army. This would require absolute trust amongst the secret-keepers and yet General Scott here does not trust me or my judgment. Mr. Sackett here mistrusts my experience, much as I mistrust his attitude for the lives of the agents in the field.”

He paused for a moment before glancing up at Washington, hoping that his next words would not reinstate the court-martial that he was supposed to have been given. “You sir, you know the name Abraham Woodhull, and yet you will not disclose the source of your knowing. Apparently, you do not trust me either. Therefore, I cannot trust any success of a chain that we might build here today.”

He saw Sackett shake his head negative, as if either agreeing or disagreeing with his assessment – he couldn't tell. However, it seemed that Washington valued Sackett's opinion quite highly for he said, “Then let me speak with Captain Tallmadge alone.”

“Sir, I'm sure you've already received notification, but what about the prisoners in the cellar?” Scott asked. “Shall I prepare scouts to gather reports from the ale houses along the border?”

“Those prisoners will be dealt with shortly, General,” Washington said before focusing his gaze back to Ben, saying, “Please accompany me, Captain.”

As Washington left the room, with his guard somehow already at the entrance with his cloak ready, Ben followed the general out and into a lightly brewing snowstorm. He saw Washington pause on the ends of the steps and approached, half-surprised that as soon as he was paced to the side of the general, Washington resumed his walk. Side-by-side they traversed, through the fresh snow rapidly coating the ground, and though it was bitterly cold, Ben did not complain or allow it to show on his face.

“Mr. Sackett tells me that you prefer an alias for Woodhull,” Washington said, casually strolling through the wind-blown snow storm as if it were nothing. “I must say, I concur.”

“Forgive me sir,” Ben hesitatingly said as Washington's words sunk in, “I thought we agreed that the best way for--”

“You were right,” the general interrupted, “for this prescription, we require an amendment in the name of trust. Following our retreat at Brooklyn Heights, I tasked an agent to reconnoiter enemy encampments around Long Island and seek out contacts friendly to our side. His name was Nathan Hale and he was captured while he was on a mission for me. He was hanged as a spy.”

Ben could only blink and stare at the general in shock as he tried to come to terms with what he had heard. He wanted to say that it was false that Nathan was more careful with proclaiming his allegiance to the rebel cause than most people he knew, especially since the student body at Yale had been clearly split between the Whigs and Tories, but his words were stuck in the back of his throat.

“Fortunately,” Washington continued, “his best friend at Yale, Benjamin Tallmadge, spoke often of his hometown friends; a whaler named Brewster, and a farmer named Woodhull. I wrote those three names down on a report – a report that I looked back on when an unsigned letter sent by an anonymous farmer proved correct.”

In the brief moment of silence between the two Ben simultaneously felt his heart lift in relief and drop at the same time, for he knew the dangers that were to come – Washington thought the chain of agents was feasible.

“Captain Hale died without friends to support him. We cannot let that happen to Mr. Culpeper.”

“Mr. Culpeper?” he asked, puzzled.

It was short-lived as Washington held up the boiled egg with [Mr. W] printed on it, saying, “We'll never use the name Woodhull ever again.” The egg was crushed in Washington's gloved hands as the general gave him a nod of acknowledgment, turned and strode away. Ben stood there in the cold for a moment later, as an unbidden small smile worked its way up his lips. While he mourned the fact that Nathan had given his life in service to the freedom of the people here from British rule, he was glad that Washington was taking the safety and lives of his friends seriously.

With that comforting thought secured in his mind, he made his way back to the house and as he opened the door, careful to dust the coating of snow on his uniform and hair off, before entering. As the the door closed behind him, the warmth of the house was tempered by the sounds of voices coming from the room where the four of them had met earlier. Crossing the short distance from the foyer and back into the meeting room, he entered, just as he heard Washington say, “...Sackett will see to it.”

“Sir, I must protest!” Scott said, sounding slightly exasperated but still composed enough that it barely showed on his face. “These women, they're completely unknown, foreign to us. To send them away when they know our camp, our numbers, is asking for Cornwallis and his forces to trap us here.”

“They will be transported to a secret and secure location,” Washington said, as Ben noticed that Sackett was looking at both generals with keen eyes. “And there, we shall learn how the British trained them and how they came to be with their strange ways, words, and tactics. Lieutenant Brewster along with Sergeants Hickey and Groves will be accompanying him” The general then turned his attention to Sackett, saying, “If you would please, Mr. Sackett, time is of the essence.”

“At once,” the bespectacled man said, getting up and hurrying out of the room.

Moments later, Ben heard the entrance to the house open and close. While he was quite surprised that Washington would send his personal guards with Caleb and Sackett, something about the transporting of their spy prisoners seemed a little too secretive to him. He understood that Sackett had talked in confidence with Washington when their general had returned to camp earlier in the day, but with the confidence that the general had placed in him earlier in passing on the future alias of Abe, he felt that he could not ask Washington what was happening to their prisoners.

There was also the feeling of a certain set of information that seemed that Washington did not want to pass on, at least not right at the moment – could it be because of Scott's actions last night that stayed whatever Washington wanted to really say? He didn't know and could only speculate.

* * *

_Morning, again..._

 

“You are an invaluable asset to me, and so General Scott, I feel it better to apply your acumen where it is most needed – on the front.”

“Sir,” Scott protested, “a captain cannot run the intelligence branch.”

“That is why I promoted him to Major.”

Scott was silent for a very long moment before saying, “I wish you the very best of luck, Your Excellency.”

As soon as Scott left, Ben approached, having not wanted to interrupt the conversation between the two officers. He was, however, grateful and slightly giddy that a promotion had been given to him and that Washington was placing direct trust in him to carry out his duties as the new Head of Intelligence.

“He is a fine general,” he heard Washington murmur as he approached, turning to face him.

“Thank you, Your Excellency, for this promotion, sir. I pray I do you proud,” he managed to say, surprised that he was able to string together such a coherent sentence in light of what had just happened.

“As do I,” Washington agreed. “Your first duty here is to come up with a given name for our Mr. Culpeper.”

Tilting his head slightly, he thought about the request for a few moments before smiling slightly. “Samuel,” he said. It was all he could do to ensure that hope for his brother still stuck on board the _Jersey_ would be released soon.

“In honor of your brother, I presume?” the general asked.

“Yes, sir,” he said, though curiosity over took him for a brief moment as he asked, “And might I ask, what is the meaning of 'Culpeper'?”

“Excellent question.”

~~~

While Caleb was not adverse to the sounds of women's voices, especially enthusiastic ones that held no amount of gaiety or laughter back, for it greatly reminded him of all the ale houses and seedier pubs that he frequented while running scouting reports back and forth for the 2nd Continental Light Dragoons. He found himself rather enjoying the barely understood chatter of their two former prisoners as Sackett asked them questions.

While the secretive events of the night still made him slightly guilty that he did not tell Ben yet, and were still unfolding even now, he was glad that Sackett had the foresight to inform General Washington of the true nature of their prisoners. Disbelief at the two women's appearance and their behavior still lingered within him, but for all that had happened, especially with the burning of Brooklyn Heights and their retreat from New York, this supposed tall tale from these two women lightened his heart.

While they were still celebrating their victories at Trenton and Princeton, it was only because of Abe's timely delivery of the Hessian report that guaranteed it. They still had no one permanently in the city to be their eyes and ears. There was no counting on the future skirmishes or potential victories to be had.

Under secret orders from Washington, Sackett had arranged for a carriage to be drawn to the back of the house. The two women had been publicly seen by the guardsmen and transferred to the carriage, with Sackett loudly proclaiming that he, Caleb, and the two personal guards of Washington himself would be taking them to a more secure safehouse. Back then, Caleb only had an inkling as to what was happening, for he had believed what Sackett had originally stated for the fate of their prisoners.

It had all been a feint, for when the carriage was at least a league away from the encampment, Sackett had halted the carriage. What transpired after that still felt like an odd dream to him, but Caleb had then heard the older man order the guards to let the two women out, he had also made a quip about the encampment having knowledge that the women were no longer in the camp. Sackett then proceeded to inform the women that the general – not mentioned directly by name, of course – wanted to interview them and saw some truth in their story, but because of who they were, they had to sneak back into the camp without anyone knowing the wiser.

That exercise had given Caleb a first hand glance at just how thoroughly trained in sneaking around the women had, and just how devious and deceptive Sackett was. A part of him was glad though, that Sackett had told Washington of what had transpired in the brief questioning of the women, but at the same time, the fact that not only he, but all of the others made it back to the encampment and the house without detection worried him. The Continental Army's guarding of the camp was quite poor.

The sounds of light laughter from one of the women shook him out of his musings as he looked up from where he was sitting in the corner of Sackett's office. It was now mid-morning, and only when Washington, Scott, and Ben had vacated the building – temporarily he hoped, for at least Ben – did the women who had hidden themselves on the second floor of the house for the duration of the night, emerge and quietly make their way to Sackett's office.

“I am so excited to finally meet you face-to-face, sir! I did my thesis on you while at Quantico, and believe me, you're an inspiration to a lot of us here...I mean, there, well, in the future.”

“Quantico?”

“Military base and training facility in Virginia, just outside of our capitol.”

“Inspiration to 'us'?”

“Yeah, the Ministry of Intelligence, Division 6. We used to be known as the CIA, the Central Intelligence Agency. We're the civilian branch of international espionage and intelligence gathering for the current and former government and country of the United States of America. The President, who was also our military's Commander-in-Chief, was in charge of us. Since Britannia reconquered us twenty-three years ago, MI6 has generally stayed the same, but most of those who work for MI6 are Britannia's agents. Very few of us defected when the rebellion started. I'm one of them. Those of us who defected have formed a network that is liaised with the military intelligence network of the former US Army and Navy.”

“Fascinating,” Sackett said, leaning slightly forward from his already precarious perch on his chair. “If you don't mind, I'd like to ask you a few questions about this 'Ministry of Intelligence, Division 6'.”

“Nooooo,” came the sing-song denial across the hall that caused all of them to look up and for the younger Sackett to frown in clear displeasure. “Don't ask that question, Mr. Sackett... Natalie will go on a long-winded speech about all the 'greatness' and 'awesome' things that the agency has done but cannot divulge details because of 'secret clearance' access and all that bullshit. It then ends with her comparing it to Mil-Int and how civilians have less structure and more freedom to take whatever actions they need to in order to accomplish their goals.”

“El-tee,” the younger Sackett said after a moment of silence, “shut up. Just because Westpoint's Mil-Int program was also world-renowned doesn't give you bragging rights either.”

“Mil-Int? Westpoint? As in Fort Westpoint in New York?” the elder Sackett broke into their conversation.

“Military Intelligence program, the premiere academic program of study at Westpoint Military Academy,” the younger supplied before Brewster could utter a word. “It became the site for the US Army's school to train and produce officers. There were four other academies that were also established in the many years that followed: Coast Guard Academy, Naval Academy, Air Force Academy, and Merchant Marine.”

“Air Force?”

“Ah...we have things that can fly through the air in the future,” Brewster said, getting up from where she was sitting and walked over. To the younger Sackett, she said, “Better stop blowing the old man's mind. Methinks he'll have a hernia soon if we keep telling him future technology and marvels.”

Fortunately, the three of them were interrupted by the timely opening of the door to the house, as both Ben and General Washington entered. Eyes turned, and mouths stopped talking as he watched in hilarious surprise at the actions that both women took. They stood straighter than he had ever seen someone stand, legs snapped together in a polished fashion that seemed almost borderline British, and both had raised their right arm up until the upper half of their arms were parallel to the floor. Their forearms had been tilted at an angle until the tips of their right hands' longest fingers, pressed together so that it formed a plane, were touching the tip of their eyebrows. Their left arm was stiffly by their sides with their left hands curled into a fist.

Caleb had a feeling that it was some sort of acknowledgment of respect or salute that would have typically been done with the tip of a hat towards the receiver, for Washington. Their eyes had not strayed one moment to Ben, but were centered directly on the general. He had a brief moment of intense doubt – had Sackett been in the right to have freed the women last night? He didn't know if their completely frightening change in demeanor was a threat or not.

But that moment passed when it seemed that Washington knew that the gesture was a sign of respect and merely tipped his tricorn at them. It seemed enough of a sign of acknowledgment for the women as he saw them relax a fraction before withdrawing their hands from their heads and almost as one, clasped them behind their backs. Their stance had also changed as both of them stood with their legs apart in what he estimated to be about shoulder width.

Caleb shot a glance over to Ben and caught his friend's eyes for a moment – neither of them knew what was going and both were sorely baffled. Never mind that it was still strange for him to see women wearing breeches or trousers...at least he thought they were trousers.

“Please,” Washington said after a moment of stretched and uncomfortable silence, gesturing to the chairs that were next to the elder Sackett. “There is no need to stand on ceremony. Please have a seat.”

“Sir,” both women answered in quite curt manners before taking a seat. Caleb dragged his own closer to them, mainly because he was curious as to what was going to happen while he heard Ben scrape his own chair from the other side of the room to bring it next to the one Washington occupied.

“Now,” Washington began in a cordial tone, “Mr. Sackett here tells me that the stories of both of you from the future are true?”

“Um, fuck,” Caleb heard Brewster mutter a little too loud, as if still trying to get over the demeanor that had encompassed her when Washington entered.

“Christ on a pony, Carrie,” the younger Sackett hissed, “you can't just curse in front of _the_ Commander-in-Chief.” The younger Sackett immediately apologized to Washington, saying, “Please accept my apology for my companion's rude words. The Lieutenant here seems not to have fully learned proper etiquette while at school.”

As much as Caleb wanted to laugh, he kept himself from doing so. He wasn't sure which one was worse, the curse word that Brewster had uttered quite baldly in front of their general, or the fact that the younger Sackett had used the Savior's name as an epithet. Both were quite offensive, but it seemed to him that invoking the Savior's name was not offensive in the strange, strange future.

“Etiquette that is entirely not of this land and words that are barely understood by us, am I correct?” Washington answered, seemingly keeping any sort of inflection or emotion from the tone of his voice. If he was offended by what had just been uttered, he was not showing it.

“Yes, sir,” the younger Sackett answered. “I also must say that as a civilian, I was also in the wrong to salute you, but in the future, you are a highly lauded and admired figure. I couldn't help myself.”

“Noted,” the general said. “And to try to preserve this 'future' you speak of, questions such as the fate of ourselves and of the war should not be asked, correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Brewster spoke up. “Though I already informed the Lieutenant here--” she gestured to him “--that the war is eventually won, though with great casualties on either side and spanning both military and civilians. The Holy Empire of Britannia, as Britain will eventually be called, began their campaign and crusade of peace, blessed by the Pope himself, over seventy years ago in our time. Twenty-three years ago, they invaded our shores and reconquered America. It seems that history is repeating itself because we were in the midst of rebelling against Britannia's rule when Natalie and I were transported here.”

Washington was silent for a few long moments before saying, “And that is the heart of the problem that must be solved.” Caleb saw him reach inside of his coat to extract a folded letter of some sort. “While I was away, I received a scout's report containing the most curious of sketches. While not a portrait of an identified officer, it contains something strange, something that I had not seen before until I took a look at the rifle and pistol that both of you carried upon your persons.”

The general extended the folded parchment to the two women and it was Brewster who took it and carefully unfolded it. Caleb watched as a myriad of expressions played over both women's faces, but it was the younger Sackett who took the letter from Brewster's hands with a clear and prominent frown on her face.

“I can't believe they actually constructed this,” the younger Sackett whispered in the silence that fell across those in the room. She looked up and said, “If this is here, sir, then there may be others who have appeared in a similar fashion to our appearance here. Might we look for them?”

“But does that not also beget the promise of your Britannia people also showing?” the elder Sackett questioned.

“Well, we're so screwed,” Brewster piped up, though Caleb thought her attempt to alleviate – he wasn't sure – the mood fell quite flat. “Didn't you say that MI6's research and development teams were constructing something that looked like this, Natalie?”

“Yes, but remember, I and members of the team that we were in also defected before the ink on the designs were even dry,” her companion replied. “I don't know what it is supposed to do, other than potentially give Britannia the advantage to put down the rebellion.”

“This rebellion and defection from this Britannia, you call it,” Washington broke into the conversation, causing the two women to immediately stop talking and return their full and undivided attention to the general. “As much as it still surprises me that women are allowed to take up arms and serve in the military, I am curious. What unit do you serve in, Lieutenant?”

“I'm a graduate of Westpoint Military Academy, class of twenty-one-seventy-three from the Military Intelligence academic program, sir,” Brewster proudly said. “When the rebellion started, I joined the 2nd Legionnaires.”

“Interesting...uniform...that the Army has allowed women to wear,” Washington murmured before turning his attention to the younger Sackett, asking, “And you, Miss Sackett, why do you wear the uniform of the future Army?”

“I was a former agent of Britannia's civilian intelligence arm, the Ministry of Intelligence, Division 6. I and others were recruited into the specialized counter-intelligence program when most of us were in our third year at Yale or Harvard. When the rebellion started, I and a few others defected. I was assigned to assist the 2nd Legionnaires and to run counter-intelligence information behind enemy lines.”

Silence again befell the room and it was the elder Sackett who broke it by asking, “Sir?”

“Brewster and Sackett,” the general mused for a moment before bringing his gaze to sweep around the room. Caleb could see confusion surface on Ben's face, mirroring that of the elder Sackett. He wondered what the general was thinking about, but it was soon answered with a knowing smile blossoming on Washington's face. “It seems, gentlemen and ladies,” he said, seemingly looking at everyone present at the same time. “That despite trying to preserve this strange, wondrous future, Providence seems to have brought not only the two of you, but perhaps others here.”

There was a pause in the general's words, but it was quickly erased as he continued to say, “We know at least Lieutenant Brewster here, at least our Lieutenant Brewster, survived the war, for it seems that Providence has brought a descendant of yours to here in the form of lady Lieutenant Brewster.” As shocked as he was, Caleb somehow managed to keep the expression from showing on his face as Washington turned to the elder Sackett and said, “It seems that the same applies to you as well, Mr. Sackett.” That same piercing gaze also turned to Ben as the general said, “And I have heard that a descendant of yours, Major, is also involved in this future war.”

“Major?” Brewster questioned. “I thought this Tallmadge is a Captain?”

“Promotion,” Washington simply answered as Caleb stifled the laughter that threatened to escape his lips at just how pale and surprised Ben looked. He had finally mastered his own shock, enough that a part of him accepted the fact that Lieutenant Carrie Brewster of the strange future was a descendant of his. As far as he knew, he had no children yet, and despite his sudden burning desire to question Brewster on who his wife would be, he reigned it in – the year that Brewster mentioned in graduating school was about four hundred years into the future. Even his sometimes irrational mind knew that remembering details about events such as this would be impossible – notes and scraps of parchment used to preserve history would fall apart after so many years. And with that settling of thoughts, he found himself quite strangely proud of the fact that a descendant of his cursed like a sailor.

“Major Tallmadge is my new Head of Intelligence, and I expect both of you to work with him, Lieutenant Brewster here, and Mr. Sackett. In exchange for your cooperation, we will try to find a way to preserve this strange future you are from and send you 'home' and see what can be done about the strange sketch report that I received,” the general continued.

“Hmph,” the elder Sackett said, though it sounded more noise than a form of protest. However, it was enough to catch Washington's attention, and while Caleb had never seen a civilian interrupt their general before, it seemed Sackett was familiar with it. “Perhaps I should take charge of these two young women and their needs, while the Major here concentrates on forming tighter chains and recruitment of other agents in the chain?”

Caleb wasn't sure if he saw what looked like light in Ben's eyes die slightly as soon as Sackett had finished his suggestion. He smiled to himself, assuming that he had seen correctly – Ben was politely curious about the women, and it was the first time he had seen his best friend react that way to women. There was much to be said and done by him to ensure that that curiosity was nourished and grown from the seedling.

“Perhaps,” Washington stated, interrupting his thoughts as he returned his attention to the general. “I would appreciate a report, if at all possible, on future tactics that are both from this military academy's academic program dealing with military intelligence, and from the perspective of the civilian side by counter-intelligence. We may find tactics that may be of use to us to win this war.”

“Perhaps,” the younger Sackett said, mirroring the same expression that her ancestor Sackett had on his face. “However, the actionable reports that might be produced are also based upon what was started here. What we formed in the future is a reflection of what was formed here, sir. Without the tactics used by the Culper Spy Ring during your war would have never been able to be used by the spy ring that is operating behind Britannia lines in twenty-one-seventy-seven. With all due respect sir, if we give you actionable reports, we may completely alter our own history. You may be signing ours and many of our brethren's death warrants.”

The silence that stretched between Washington and the two women was decidedly uncomfortable, and Caleb was not the only one looking back and forth between the two. Finally, after a few minutes of what seemed like neither would yield to the other, their general said, “Then we shall concentrate on discovering where this” – he gestured to the piece of parchment still in the younger Sackett's hands – “foreign object is and how it came to be.”

“And hopefully what threat it poses to all of us.”

 

~*~*~*~

 


	2. Don't Let This Become A Hollywood-Style Standoff

**Chapter 2: Don't Let This Become a Hollywood-Style Standoff**

 

“Hey Woody,” Caleb casually said as he rocked back and forth in the quite comfortable rocking chair, trying his damnest not to laugh at the reaction that Abe displayed upon waking up and seeing him. “You got any breakfast here?”

“You bastard!” Abe hissed, throwing a brush at him, to which he tried to dodge but only managed to cover his face from the attack. “You bastard! What are you doing here?! This is my home!”

“Aye,” he agreed, looking around, admiring all the quaint and simple looks that decorated the ceiling and walls. “And a fine little home it is, albeit a bit lonely.”

“You are aware,” Abe continued to angrily whisper, “that the soldier quartered here will be back soon!”

Caleb made a noise of agreement before saying, “Better eat quick then.” He got up and with a smile, left the room, making his way down the stairs to the first floor. Despite the hilarity of just how badly Abe had reacted, it was the fact that it had been a little too easy to infiltrate Abe's house and sit so close to him without Abe knowing it instantly.

Despite the protection that he was about to give Abe with the object in his coat's pocket, he was still worried. Ever since he had easily re-infiltrated the Morristown camp, he had quietly told Ben about what had happened when the foreign – he couldn't think of another word to describe just how _strange_ they were – women were secretly brought back so that General Washington could talk to them. In turn, he had heard Ben quietly confer with the elder Sackett on how best to ensure that the men around the camp were more alert to whoever traveled through.

Though an unofficial order had been implied when Washington had agreed to the delicate terms that the two women had requested, the elder Sackett had immediately asked his descendant for suggestions. The younger Sackett was not entirely forthcoming, but after deliberating on the request for what seemed like an entire day, both she and Brewster had suggested a few things that sounded quite vague to his ears. As evasive and non-committal as the suggestions were, it was enough for Ben to start quietly suggesting a few ideas to at least Washington's personal guards.

Caleb knew that Ben wanted to ensure that Abe was protected, and with what had happened at camp, it was quite a good thing that the courier duties had fallen to him. Too much protective measures would stifle Abe's ability to spy. Still...to have gotten this close to Abe while he was sleeping...

Spotting a piece of biscuit that didn't look as dry or hard as the rations they had at camp, he sat himself at the dining table and picked it up. Biting into it, he savored the day-old stale taste, letting it melt in his mouth before chewing and swallowing it. It felt like ages since he had eating anything so fresh. The rations or whatever blocks of strange-smelling 'food' that apparently had not been discovered while the two women had been initially searched was what the women were eating.

It had not been the women, but the elder Sackett who pointed out that food that could be served to the women may not agree with them and the same could be said for their 'food' – it could not be shared with others until the women were accustomed to what was eaten by the men at camp. He didn't understand most of what the elder Sackett was describing, but it made enough sense that whenever Washington convened Ben, Sackett, him, and the two women for a brief talk over a meal, segregation of food was made a priority.

It also meant that the women drank quite a lot of hot tea and occasionally coffee. It was at the request of the women that they have all of their drinks boiling hot. He wasn't entirely sure why the request was made with such emphasis, but knew that when the warmer months started to arrive, hot drinks were not going to be pleasant to drink. However, more than once, Caleb had over heard the elder Sackett grumbling about the fact that his ration of tea leaves was dwindling faster than he wanted.

“Fine silver,” he said, as a very beautiful spoon with an intricately designed handle caught his eye, just as he heard the clatter of footsteps on the stairs descend. He picked the piece up, admiring it as he chewed on the biscuit. Knowing that Abe was probably short on silver, he suggested, “I could fetch a good price across the sound if you'd like.”

Abe immediately snatched the spoon out of his hand and slammed it into the case that it had been in before closing said case. “We're supposed to meet at the cove!”

“You're supposed to hang a petticoat,” he pointed out, popping another piece of the biscuit into his mouth.

“When I'm ready with the intelligence! That was the plan!”

“When you're ready?” he asked, raising an eyebrow as he leaned back in the dining table's chair. “It's been two months since you passed a message about sauerkrauts.”

Exasperated and annoyed, he saw Abe fling out his arms as he said, “I've been having trouble getting into the city without raising suspicions, all right? It's not as easy for me as you think.”

As Abe peered out of the window, Caleb mentally sighed. “No one thinks it's easy, but this is more than just about you.” He tossed the last of the biscuit into his mouth as Abe turned back around and reached into his coat's pockets to pull out the secret notebook he had been tasked to carry and defend with his life. Dropping it on the other side of the table, he watched as Abe walked over and picked it up.

“What's this?” Abe asked.

“That, is your new Bible,” he answered, watching his friend open the notebook up. “It's a code dictionary to ensure that anything that you write cannot be read by the enemy, in case of intercept. Each word has its own number. Ben chose the words that we thought you'd use most.” Getting up, he strode over to where Abe was and pointing to the numbers that were on the current page, saying, “Now look, 722, that's you. 721, that's Benny-boy. 725, yours truly.”

“Wait, hang on a second,” Abe said, “722, that says 'Samuel Culper'.”

“Culpeper,” he clarified, careful to keep the surprise from his face. During the initial interview that Washington had conducted, the younger Sackett had mentioned 'Culper Spy Ring' in association to what was happening now – the formation of a chain of agents. While nothing had been said of the pronunciation of 'Culper' versus what Washington had designated as Abe's alias surname, 'Culpeper', Caleb had a feeling that what Abe had stated just now was not entirely coincidence. “That's your alias, all right?” he continued, pushing aside the thought, knowing that his friend's confusion needed to be assauged. “It's the only name we use for you back at headquarters. Woodhull does not exist.”

“Culpeper,” Abe tested out after a few moments of silence. The variations that followed eventually rolled into the beginnings of a familiar children's rhyme. “I hate it.”

“Well, Washington picked that one, and Ben picked Samuel, on the account of his brother.”

His statement had the desired effect as Abe stuttered for a moment, “W-Washington? Ge-General Washington?”

“That's right,” he nodded, “old 711 himself.”

Abe seemed to accept the explanation and as he sat down at the table, murmuring to himself, he finally said, “I'm not going to remember all of this.”

Caleb grinned, leave it to Abe to turn a simple thing into something that did not need to be complex. Leaning in, he gave his friend a pat on the side of his arm, saying, “That's why you keep the book – hidden. Now when can I tell them you're heading back to British headquarters?”

“I don't know,” Abe said after a moment as he closed the notebook and bound it back up in the leather ties.

“Why don't you take Anna with you to get past the checkpoint--”

“No!” Abe vehemently said, dropping the notebook back on the table as he swept his arm out to emphasize his point. “Absolutely not!”

“Whoa Woody,” he said, holding his hands up in a placating manner. “It's all right, it was just a suggestion. I mean, traveling with someone who knows what you're doing might be better than say, traveling with your father, since you're having problems getting into New York.”

Abe sighed and merely looked to his left and back out the window, placing his hands on his hips as he said, “You'd better get going, Caleb. That soldier will be here shortly.”

“All right, all right,” he said, before snagging one last day-old stale biscuit, knowing that he did not need to worry about Abe hiding the codebook. Leaving through the front entrance, he took a long look around the field and forest that surrounded the small farmstead and when he was sure that there was no one watching him, he quickly ran towards the treeline.

* * *

If it weren't for the fact that the office he had been assigned was adjacent to a smaller one, Ben would have taken the open room next to Sackett's. However, due to the fact that their 'guest' had been billeted here and only allowed out during the time between first and second sleep, he had been tasked to keep an eye on her. Though Washington had restricted questions that could be asked of the two strange women since an accord had been struck, he did request that both learn to acclimate to social circumstances here. They needed to find a plausible way to introduce the fact that there were two women living in the house and the elder Sackett was already in the midst of creating their cover stories.

However, until their cover stories could be fully documented, it mean that they stayed indoors, which had frustrated both to no end. Currently, both the younger and elder Sacketts had taken a horse and cart to Princeton to create the younger Sackett's cover. Before she had left he had been under the impression that the younger Sackett seemed more cordial and forthcoming with the circumstances surrounding their incarceration, but the other woman--

“I hate quills!” he heard her mutter in the adjacent office to his... for what felt like the twentieth time since he had begun the day.

The door between his office and her study was open, mainly to allow fresh air to flow through, but it also allowed the woman to listen in to any reports that were verbally given to him as he sat here with written ones scattered all over his desk. Though tradition and secrecy dictated that he should not have allowed her to listen in on confidential intelligence and scouting reports, he hoped that perhaps a report about oddities or strange things would be delivered and would help the women return to their future sooner rather than later.

The women were strange, and though it seemed for now, since Washington's accord with them, they were more polite though still prone to occasionally cursing. As curious as he was about their mannerisms and the wealth of information they could provide to help his knowledge about Sackett's 'tradecraft', he had thus managed to restrained himself from becoming too familiar with them. It also helped that he had so much to do and there seemed to be not enough hours in the day to complete all of his daily tasks.

“Stupid plucked chicken of a feather-quill...fucking dammit!”

Mentally sighing, he placed his own quill down and got up. Taking the few steps over to where the frame that separated the two rooms. Peeking in, he saw that their 'guest' had already broken five quills. He glanced back at the grandfather clock just outside in the hall. It was not even midday yet and she had already done this much destruction to the quills.

“Sorry,” she said, looking up as he returned his attention to her attempts at writing down memories on parchment. “I'm bothering you aren't I?”

He shook his head negative, saying, “It is no bother.”

“Well, I say it is, so I'm going to close this door now. Have fun with your reports, sir.”

It was that forwardness, a strange sense of fearlessness that he found that both women possessed, that he was pushed back into his office with her closing the door. Very rarely did he ever seen a woman be that self-assured in her mannerisms and speech. There had only been a couple of women when he had studied at Yale who held good amount of the confidence that the two women had. Those two women at Yale had debated studies not related to his, so he never had a chance to come to know them.

The entrance to the house opened and closed, and moments later, Caleb appeared at the entrance to his office, just as he resumed his seat. He couldn't help but smile as he saw his friend arrive with quite a flushed face and what hopefully would be good news.

“How's Mr. Culpeper?” he asked, grinning.

“Great...great,” Caleb answered. “Living alone for now. Didn't ask why, but he's still got that British soldier quartered in his house.”

“His wife?” he asked, concern filling him as he frowned slightly. Picking up his quill again, he waited for the answer before he would resume his report writing.

“Don't know, but I think she's doing well,” his friend answered, starting to pace around, as if his rush to get the codebook to Abe had not worn him down and only made him more excited. “Don't know why they're separated, but he seems to be doing just fine, or as fine as can be. Those spoons... were they Anna's?”

“What?” he asked. The last time Caleb had been this vague had been about the supposedly wild night that his friend had spent with the most beautiful tavern wench in Elizabethtown, Genevieve. Not that Ben asked for details, it was just Caleb had a habit of giving him details when he didn't want them. Caleb had been awfully vague about Genevieve, other than saying that she was the most beautiful woman ever.

“Anna. There's something going between those two. Just don't know what,” Caleb said while pacing back and forth. “You know, when I suggested that he take Anna to New York City to get past the checkpoint, he got very upset. Anyways, I supposed that this is none of our concern.”

Ben glanced up from the report he was currently reading and transcribing via summary to another piece of parchment, quill paused in the middle of writing. “They're my only two agents on Long Island. If there's any trouble between them, I want to know about it.”

“How's about jumping on a whaling boat with me, Major...get your arse out of this woodpile?”

A small grin appeared on his face as Ben tried to keep it from appearing, but due to their 'guest' in the next room, who was still scratching away on her 'reports', albeit a little more quiet-like than she had been earlier, he dared not to say what he truly thought about Caleb's suggestion. “I'd like to,” he began, placing the quill down, seeing that he was not going to accomplish any relevant work done, not while Caleb was pacing in his office. “But Washington needs me here...compiling.” Leaning back, he gestured to the pile of reports that littered his desk. “That, and there's also Sackett's 'homework'. 'Tradecraft' as he calls it. I feel like I'm back in school again.”

“Yeah,” his friend said, grinning, “See, this is exactly the reason why I've been careful to avoid success.”

“Amen,” came the barely heard quip from the room adjacent to his office, just as the entrance to the house opened and closed, silencing whatever else their 'guest' was about to say.

“Sir!” the corporal who entered his office said, stopping at he foot of his desk.

“Sir, he says,” Caleb mocked, though both the corporal and Ben ignored him.

“I have an urgent report from the Provost Marshal. Thought perhaps you'd like to see the latest prisoner exchange proposal.”

“Thank you corporal,” he answered, taking the letter and opening it with a flick of his wrists as the corporal left. Taking a few moments to read through the letter and formality paragraph, he scanned the list of the names...and immediately stood up in surprise, almost knocking his chair back and into the ground.

“What is it?”

“Samuel,” he said, staring at the final name on the list, blinking in disbelief as an elated smile blossomed on his face. “It's Samuel...he-he's alive!” Caleb snatched the letter from him, but he didn't mind as he continued to say, “He's being released!”

Caleb's half-laugh, half-hearty cheer filled the room as he exclaimed, “Sammy-boy!” Happy and quite full of cheer and good spirits, he accepted Caleb's celebratory embrace, before his friend stepped back in quite an excited manner, saying, “We'll go get him!”

Ben's elation immediately fell as he realized the date of the exchange and when it was going to happen. “I-I have to report to Washington tomorrow,” he said, rubbing his face with his hands.

“Ah, come-on!” Caleb said, “He'll release you for this!”

“No,” Ben answered, removing his hands from his face, “he won't. He'll consider it 'special treatment'. There are other men's brothers on that list.”

“I could report to him, since he'll want to talk to me anyways after you give your report, Major,” the close voice of Brewster said, as both he and Caleb looked up and towards the 'back' of the office to see the young woman peeking her head through the door. Ben glanced back towards the 'front' of his office to see that one of Washington's personal guard who stood vigilant outside of the office, Thomas Hickey, was his name, indicating nothing. It meant that there were no other visitors or occupants in the building other than him, Caleb, Hickey, and their 'guest' Lieutenant Carrie Brewster.

As a secret-keeper and personal guard of Washington, Hickey had most likely been informed of the generalities surrounding the circumstances of the women, which was also why he had been left behind. The guard was meant more to ensure that their guest did not 'escape' while the elder Sackett or Washington was not present or was not discovered by the men in the camp.

“No,” Ben said, shaking his head slightly. The offer was tempting, but he had an obligation to carry out his own duties as Head of Intelligence. It would otherwise reflect quite poorly on the trust that Washington had placed in him. “Thank you for the kind offer, but it is as the general said, my duties cannot clash with yours.”

Surprisingly, Brewster booked no argument and merely indicated her acknowledgment of the polite dismissal with a slight nod of her head and a curt, “yes, sir” before returning to try to continue writing her 'reports'. He knew and understood that the woman was quite frustrated in being cooped up in the house since arriving here, and though there had been a look of longing to go outside, she had not asked in her suggestion earlier. Perhaps his initial impression of the woman was wrong – military etiquette still seemed to be thoroughly drilled into her, despite her rather strange and vulgar speech patterns.

“All right, well I'll pick him up,” Caleb said after a moment. Before Ben could say anything, he saw his friend dash towards the entrance, halting for a moment and turned back with a wide smile on his face. “I'll go an get Samuel, and I'll bring him straight back here...actually I'll get him drunk first... no I'll get him drunk and get him a screw.”

“Wait, Caleb,” he managed to say before the man disappeared.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you,” he said.

“Hey, what are brothers for, right?”

And then Caleb was gone, with the slamming of the entrance to the house heard a moment later. Ben sighed, wishing that he could feel as giddy as his friend did, but here he was, stuck with reports that needed to be summarized and compiled so that Washington could be properly informed.

* * *

_The next day..._

 

“Shoulder your firelocks!”

The cascade of rifles being withdrawn and set against shoulders echoed through the clearing as both Continental soldiers and British redcoats stood in tense lines, warily eyeing each other. As the speck of a redcoat soldier waved the white flag of truce, it was from the far away perspective that a particular intruder quietly slinked through the branches of the bare forest.

On the small hill that the intruder was quietly cresting, there were three people not dressed in the reds of the British forces or the blues and browns of the Continentals, but of muted earthan colors. One had slicked and long hair and was wearing native clothing, the other a dark-skinned man wearing nearly threadbare clothing, and the final one wore an earthen green jacket with a matching cap. It was what was in the capped man's hands that caught the intruder's attention – a blocky, matte-black colored rifle that looked quite out of place with the flintlock pistols and gunpowder rifles that most soldiers carried.

As the sounds of the British forces shouting out the names of those being exchanged to the Continental side, the intruder heard the name 'Samuel Tallmadge' and paused for a moment, crouching down and balancing on the tree branch so that these strange intruders, looking through rifles trained on the Continentals, did not discover that they had someone else in their midst.

“Where are you, Benjamin?” the one with the forest-green cap on his head muttered, barely loud enough for the intruder to catch. In a louder, but still quiet tone, the capped one said, “Can you believe that the whelp didn't come to collect his own brother?”

Frowning, the intruder inched ever closer to the three as the capped one continued to say, “If it were my own kin on a prison ship, I'd be the first one to welcome him home.”

From the intruder's perspective, the three seemed to focus on a small area going on with the exchange as the prisoners from the British side trudged across the open clearing. The intruder saw a bearded man seemingly arguing or at least having a lively and heated discussion with a skinnier, gaunt and pale man.

“Oooh,” the capped one said, adjusting his grip on the rifle slightly, focusing on the bearded man and the gaunt one, “these two seem to know each other...”

It was the last words that the capped one uttered just as the intruder jumped down from the tree right above the three, viciously kicking the dark-skinned one in the side of his temple as a rather painful blow from the other outstretched leg landed on the back of the native's head. Faster than what the capped one could react to, the intruder grabbed him in an inescapable headlock and tightened an arm around the capped one's neck. The capped one tried to fight for air, but soon succumbed to the lack of air and fell limp.

Looking around, the intruder noticed that eyes from the Continentals were scanning the surrounding woods, and quickly slipped back into the safety of the forest, leaving the rifle as-is. The intruder had not killed the three, mainly because of the unknown consequences that would happen should any persons here be killed, even if one of the three was wielding a strangely shaped rifle. The intruder was also not sure if the capped one was of the present or future forces, or an ally or enemy. If indeed, the person was of the enemy future forces, then the intruder would return to finish the killing. However, the intruder had perceived a threat from the words of the capped one and as a Tallmadge descendant, she could not, on good conscious – and damn the consequences for this one instance – allow any harm to come to her forebearer family.

Now, it was time to track down both the bearded and gaunt men, for she was most curious to meet her ancestor. With her disguise as a civilian man in place, she adjusted her tricorn slightly and set off, bounding through the tree branches, hoping that the Continental caravan was not too far ahead.

~~~

_Meanwhile..._

 

“Robert Rogers was the one who pulled you out?” Caleb hissed.

“Aye,” Selah answered, nodding his head slightly.

“Shite,” he cursed, casting his eyes around the clearing as he focused on the treeline, hoping to spot something. On the far corner of the British lines, he thought he saw something, but as quickly as it appeared, it was gone. A few minutes passed as he continued to look around as the British prisoners had their turn to walk across the field, but there seemed to be no sign of Rogers or anyone not wearing Continental or British colors.

As formalities were completed for the prisoner exchange, he took Selah by the arm and guided him towards the others. With the rest of the caravan slowly retreating, they shuffled back down to the dirt road that would eventually fork and take them to Morristown. Rogers had clearly tried to set up a trap for Ben using Selah, but why had it not sprung?

“Lieutenant Brewster,” the captain of the exchange said from behind, causing both he and Selah to pause as the horse and cart finally settled on the path. “A word please?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said, giving Selah a pat on the back before stepping to the side.

“We can't take him with us,” the captain said, gesturing to Selah, who was looking around as if lost and unable to find his way home. “If what he says is true and Robert Rogers released him, then he's a trap waiting to be sprung.”

“What, we just leave him here, then?” he bit back, clearly not happy.

“He's not Samuel Tallmadge. He's not even a soldier!”

“No, he's Selah Strong. I've known him all of my life,” Caleb protested. “He's more Patriot than you and I put together.”

“He's not on the list,” the captain insisted. “And he was released to our care, by the enemy no less. We are not bringing him into camp.”

“Go,” Selah suddenly spoke up, causing both Caleb and the caravan captain to turn their attention to him. “I can make it on my own.”

“Ha,” Caleb gave a bark of incredulous laughter, “you can barely stand on your own two feet.” Turning his attention back on the captain, he said, “All right, when you get back to camp, you find Major Tallmadge and you tell him you're a nob. And tell him 'Genevieve'. All right? He'll know what I mean.” Walking back to where Selah was, he took him by the arm, and said, “Come on Strong, you're stuck with me until we get to friendly territory.”

* * *

_Later in the day..._

 

“Just a bit further,” he said, hearing his friend cough while he tried to reassure Selah to continue and not stop. The thought of a potential trap being sprung by Rogers ate at him for most of the day, and though telling Ben where they were going was not the best of ideas, he knew that he had to get Selah to safety first. Whatever Rogers had planned for Ben involved Selah and he was damned if he saw his friends get shot by the captain of the Queen's Rangers. Leaving Selah at the meeting place was the safest place he could come up with, and he hoped that he had enough time to return to the quickest path that connected the camp to the pub and scour the area for Rogers before any sort of trap could be sprung.

“Caleb,” Selah huffed, “Need...to...stop.”

He turned to see his friend leaning against a tree, exhausted beyond reason. He couldn't urge him to go any further, especially not when the man looked like he was about to collapse into a heap. “All right,” he said, pulling out a small skin of ale, handing it to Selah. “Sit and stretch. We can't stop long.”

Taking back the skin of ale after Selah had drank his fill, he heard him say, “So...this Genevieve? Is a tavern wench?”

“Aye,” he said, letting the fond memories surface for a moment. “Prettiest I've ever seen. That's where we're headed – Elizabethtown Tavern.”

“Was she dark or fair?”

“She were both.”

“Like my Anna?” Selah said, with a far away look in his eyes.

Caleb couldn't help but smile, but even that was short lived as he heard a strange noise and looked back, only to see the far away glint of a rifle barrel reflecting in the sun before a _bzzt_ sound rang through the air. “Get down!” he said, yanking Selah to the ground, just as _something_ hot whizzed over their heads and struck the base of a tree, setting the bark slightly aflame.

Not knowing what the hell had just been fired at them, he knew that he had seen at least a rifle in the woods behind him. Estimating how long it took for a soldier to reload, he scrambled up, dragging Selah up with him as they ran through the forest. The sounds of a wasp's nest chased after them as he felt a dangerously heated shot land just a ghost behind where they had been in their sprint to cover. Spotting an inclined part of the earth that would provide them better cover than hiding behind the small rocks, both of them jumped down and immediately turned to see who exactly was pursuing them. He thought he saw the feathered earthen-green cap flit through the trees, carrying something black and blocky, followed by perhaps another person and a third one, dark-skinned and following close behind.

“Three against two,” he muttered to Selah, as the afterimage of the strange blocky object gave him a feeling of seeing it before. “Though in your shite condition, its more like three against one.”

“Robert Rogers?” Selah asked. Fortunately, his friend was so caught up in the escape and was probably quite deliriously tired that he didn't question what had exactly been shot at them. Caleb himself was still having trouble comprehending it. Had it been one of those strange rifles that his descendant brought with her that had been shot at them? If yes, then how the hell did Robert Rogers acquire one?

“Aye,” he said, sweeping up his rifle so that it sat snugly against his shoulder as he sighted down the barrel, hoping to get at least one clear shot and even the odds slightly. Strange rifle or not, if he was able to even the odds, then perhaps they would be able to survive this ambush. “Think so.”

“Give me your gun.”

Seeing that there was nothing better to suggest, Caleb pushed the pistol to Selah as he said, “Well, look on the bright side, if Rogers does kill us, at least Benny-boy will be alive to murder him.” Laughing as he saw Selah shake his head and weakly grin, he couldn't help but have his spirits lifted slightly.

~~~

All right, so it was technically against protocol that he had left without informing Washington or his aides where exactly he was going. There was also the fact that he had left Brewster alone in the house, for Sackett had not yet returned, though he thought the chances of the woman causing chaos within the house was minimal. As he urged his horse to go as faster through the forest path, he rounded another bend and slowed the gallop down to a trot before stopping all together as he saw Captain Henry of the prisoner exchange caravan approach.

“What news of the prisoner exchange?” he asked as his eyes searched around and could find no sign of Caleb or Samuel.

“Robert Rogers, sir,” Henry answered. “He arranged the release of a civilian among the soldiers.”

“What?” he said, disbelief coloring his voice before asking, “My brother, where is my brother?”

“They attempted to pose the civilian as your brother, sir. Brewster vouched for him, but I couldn't risk bringing an unknown prisoner back to camp.”

“What about Brewster? Where's Brewster?”

“He headed north, sir,” Henry answered. “Neutral territory. He said to tell you 'Genevieve'...said you'd understand what it meant.”

A brief momentary panic filled him before he spurred his horse on. Caleb was in trouble and a trap that had been set by Rogers was about to be sprung on him. He couldn't let his friend die at Rogers' hand, not while he had breath still left in him.

~~~

“Aye, this is the worst stand off I've ever been in,” Caleb muttered as he glanced over at Selah who looked like he had recovered some color to his face after resting for a moment. “On the count of one, I'll run around to try to draw their fire from a better point.” With a nod of affirmation from Selah, he counted down, “Three...two...one--”

Leaping up, just as Selah shot the pistol, he dashed to his right, kicking up dead leaves in his wake as the _bzzt_ sound passed perilously close to his ears, slamming into a tree that he had just passed moments ago. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Rogers getting out from under cover to continue to try to shoot him with that matte-black blocky rifle, just as another of Rogers' men dashed out to try to track him with a traditional rifle.

Putting on a burst of speed, he knew that it was no coincidence that somehow Rogers acquired one of those foreign rifles – but what was it shooting? Something that burned and charred trees and created a strange sound?

“Get down!”

Caleb turned from where he was as his legs continued to carry him towards higher ground, seeing the fleeting colors of blue-white appear among the grey trunks of the bare trees, being carried by a horse at full gallop. A single shot from Ben's pistol plunged straight into the native member of Rogers' group, felling him. However, Caleb saw that Rogers himself was swinging the black rifle straight towards Ben and shouted, “No!”

Just as he thought he saw a blue bolt emerge from the black rifle, a closer _bzzt_ sound buzzed in his ear as a second blue bolt lanced towards Rogers. It splashed against the rock that Rogers had been resting the rifle on, causing Rogers' shot to go wide and Rogers to duck back into cover.

“Dammit!” he heard the voice next to him hiss, as he glanced over to see a civilian with a rather large tricorn sitting on top of his head crouched next to him. In the civilian's arms was a familiar-looking matte-black pistol, but the voice did not sound at all like the younger Sackett.

Still, help was help, and as he saw Rogers appear from another cover, this time too protected for him to even try to take a shot. The man was trying to return fire towards where Ben had been thrown off his horse and was trying to make his way towards some cover. He and the mysterious man charged back towards where Selah was, before they could get shot by the other companion within Rogers' group. The sounds of an angry swarm accompanied their mad dash to safety, but they were fast enough to all jump into the cover of the inclined earth. They were back at a stalemate.

First things first, “What the hell are you doing here?!” he shouted to Ben.

“Trying to save you,” Ben gruffly answered as he refilled his pistol with priming powder, all the while trying to keep a low profile.

“I meant for us to meet at Elizabethtown tavern, all right?! Don't you know a trap when you see one?!”

“You're welcome, Brewster.”

“You wanted Robert Rogers, right?” he asked, still incensed that Ben was idiotic enough to try to pull a crazy stunt like that. Sometimes, his friend did not know what was good for him. “You got him.”

His friend didn't answer and merely continued to refill his pistol. Turning to his other side, he looked over at the stranger who had helped them, noting that not a word or reaction had been shown during the brief argument. Instead, the stranger had just been quietly lying on his stomach, with the strange black pistol out and pointed towards the general direction of where Rogers and his men are.

“Who are you?” he said, knowing that it was not the best of introductions to thank the stranger.

“Samantha Tallmadge, at your service,” the stranger said, turning from the sentry position that had been adopted and dragged the overly large tricorn off to allow her straw-colored hair to fall from being piled inside of the hat. “You must be Caleb Brewster of the Continental Army, right?”

“Samantha? Tallmadge?” Caleb dumbly repeated, staring at an eerily familiar face that looked like a cross between Ben and what he remembered of Samuel, but unlike either. Softer, more feminine features graced the woman's face, and he realized that this woman had been mentioned by the other two. It certainly explained the strange, blocky, L-shaped pistol that was on her person.

“Oh no, not another one,” he heard Ben groan as he glanced back to see his friend peeking over his shoulder.

“Oh, hey--” the woman began, but widened her eyes as she saw Ben. “Wow, either you're my cousin in a really awesome and cool disguise – snappy uniform, by the way – or you're actually _the_ Ben Tallmadge of history!” Caleb leaned back slightly, careful not to expose his head past the earthen barrier, as the woman suddenly thrust a hand towards Ben. He chuckled as Ben gave the woman's hand a seemingly puzzled look before remembering his manners and shook it, though there was uncertainty in his eyes on whether or not the gesture was proper.

“So I take it that you've encountered others like me?” Tallmadge said, withdrawing her hand, though she still looked quite eager and fresh-faced in the face of such danger that was just over their cover mound.

“You want me to tell her, or do you want to?” he asked, looking back and forth as he couldn't help but grin at the family resemblance between Ben and this woman.

“What is going on?” Selah asked from the far side of the mound.

“Ah, we'll explain it later, Selah,” Caleb said. “After we get out of this.” Turning back to Tallmadge, he said, “Long story short, miss, yeah, we've met two others. A Lieutenant Carrie Brewster and Miss Natalie Sackett.”

“Oh, Carrie and Natalie! Thank goodness they're alive,” the woman exclaimed. “It was hell trying to get back to Washington herself at Valley Forge. From where I was, across most of central and western New Jersey and into Pennsylvania, it was crawling with Britannia forces.”

“Don't you mean Washington himself? And who or what is 'Britannia'?” Selah spoke up.

“Ah, never mind,” Caleb said, shifting himself back so that he was lying flat on his stomach. “We can talk about this later.” He adjusted his rifle so that it was not sitting buried underneath him but to the side. “First, lets see what we can do about Robert Rogers.”

“So that man _is_ Robert Rogers?” Tallmadge asked.

“Yes,” Ben testily answered.

“Well, shit, then I should have taken that rifle from him. Sorry boys.”

“What are you apologizing for?” Ben asked, “And when did you meet him?”

“Well,” the woman began, “I don't know how I got here, other than being transported to colonial times is the most unnerving thing ever. But, I managed to steal some poor sod's clothes and started to head downwards, towards Morristown. Owing to what I know and remember about colonial history, I thought it was the best option, since Morristown is 'friendly' territory and I hoped that perhaps someone, maybe your Washington, wouldn't think I'm crazy and get me back to my place so that I can deliver the intelligence on Britannia. On my way, I saw a prisoner exchange being made, and saw Rogers and two others hiding out on the British side of things. I heard your name, Ben, and Samuel's name being mentioned.”

“Ben already, eh?” Caleb quipped, for he could not help himself. “Already getting quite friendly, aren't we?”

“Really, Brewster?” Tallmadge said, surprising Caleb with just how close of an annoyed inflection she had that sounded eerily similar to the same inflection that Ben had whenever he was annoyed at him. However, she lifted her head slightly and nodded over towards Ben, saying, “Please, call me Sam--” at that a small frown appeared on Ben's face, to which the woman quickly corrected “--or Samantha will do.”

“You encountered Rogers without consequence?” Ben asked after a moment of silence.

“Well...I ambushed them and knocked them all out before they could do something about the trap they probably set. Then I tried to follow and find Brewster here, and this other...man.”

“Selah Strong,” Caleb supplied.

“Hello,” Tallmadge seemed to chirp quite happily. “I'd shake your hand, but that requires me lifting my head more than this mound and it'll probably be blown off by that rifle that Rogers is carrying.”

If Caleb had not already been acclimated to the strange words from the other two women, along with how they behaved, he would have thought the woman lying on the dirt mound next to him was quite positively the most addled person he had ever met. Being cheerful in the face of danger was one thing, but being completely unaffected by the fact that death could come at any minute with the strange rifle was something completely different. He wasn't sure if he should admire the courage within the woman, or if he should be frightened that they potentially had a madwoman within their ranks.

“Anyways,” Tallmadge continued, “Couldn't let my namesake family die, so I like I said, I knocked Rogers' companions out with an ambush from a tree and then held Rogers in a sleeping hold until he passed out.”

“I _thought_ I saw something,” he muttered, remembering the quick oddity that he thought he had seen while scanning the edges of the clearing.

“As for what I'm apologizing for, Ben,” the woman continued in a still-casual tone, as if chattering about whatever women chatted about in an open-aired market on a sunny day, “That rifle. I didn't know then if Rogers was someone from my place in disguise like I am, or if he was part of the history here. I've been trying hard not to alter the timeline or kill anyone. I should've at least taken the rifle from him, though it is curious though...how he managed to get that thing to fire.”

“How so?” Ben asked.

“Rifles such as the one he's holding, and this--” she slid her blocky pistol over to them for a moment “--pistol are genetically coded, um, I mean, well, they only work when the person using it is correct. The stuff inside of it allows it so that there is no accidental discharge of the weapon if someone else tries to take it away and use it themselves.”

“So then how did Rogers come by one?” Caleb heard Ben murmur more to himself than to anyone else. He bit back a whistle and instead had to admire at just how composed his friend was in the face of such absurdity. He thought he was already used to the oddities and strange tales that Brewster and the younger Sackett had told, but this... this was crazy. He had half of a mind to try to pinch himself to ensure that he was still awake and not caught up in a nightmare.

“Well, I can tell you that he's not using it in the most proper manner,” Tallmadge said, retrieving her pistol before hitting something on the side of it. A rectangular-like block slid out from the handle area of the pistol, and Caleb recognized it as the 'cartridge blocks' that the two other women had identified to fill their rifle and pistol with. “He's still deadly with it, even at this range, but there are a whole lot of other stuff that can be done with that rifle.”

She paused for a moment as he saw her frown before slamming the 'cartridge block' back up into the handle of the pistol. “Damn,” she muttered, “I only have one shot left and no more blocks.”

“No knives or any sort of sharp objects on your persons?” he asked, gesturing to the borrowed typical men's outfit, complete with knee-high boots, dirtied white stockings, grey breeches, white shirt, beige vest, and drab brown coat, she was wearing. It still baffled him at just how armed his descendant and the younger Sackett had been when they had been captured. Had the boys who captured the two not been quite a sight for the two women, he had a feeling that the fight would have been won by the two women and the Continental Army would have been at least ten men less.

“No,” she answered, shaking her head slightly. “I used most of those and probably all of my blocks while escaping during my reconnaissance mission. The only good thing out of my escape is that I ended up here. The bad, I still need to get back to my place's Valley Forge.”

“Morristown should be ours and your first stop,” Ben declared as he shifted slightly on the ridge. “That way we can reunite you with your companions and see what can be done about sending your message.”

“Thank you,” she gratefully replied.

“Now we wait,” Ben said after a moment. “Nightfall should give us the best cover to try to ambush Rogers and his men.”

“All right then, plan set, match, and go,” Tallmadge cheerfully said before slipping her overly large tricorn back on her head. “Wake me up when the action starts boys. I haven't slept in three days, so I want to take a nap. Goodnight, gentlemen.” Before any of them could protest or acknowledge the request, she promptly rolled over slightly so that she was facing away from them while curling her arms around her pistol. Moments later, the sounds of heavy breathing was heard from her.

Caleb turned towards Ben, noting that Selah was looking quite puzzled at them, and shrugged, unsure as to what they should do except to wait. Of course it was not entirely safe here, but it seemed that with a man down on Rogers side, even with a strange rifle at hand, Rogers did not seem keen on moving...at least not while he had the higher ground.

“Leave her be, Brewster,” Ben said after a moment, whispering so low that it almost sounded as if he was growling those words.

He couldn't help but openly grin at just how _protective_ those words sounded to his ears. Leaning in slightly he teased, “Getting a bit fond of her, are we? Didn't know that that was what you prefer in girls--” He felt Ben's rather sharp kick on his shins but continued to keep the smarmy smile on his face, knowing that his teasing had finally uncovered something he didn't know about his friend.

“She's family, Brewster, even if she is a descendant of mine. And she's caught up in something that she shouldn't even be part of.”

“Uh, Benny-boy,” he said, gesturing to the sleeping woman, “I think you're forgetting something. Carrie, Natalie, and even Samantha here were already involved in their war before they joined ours. If you're trying to say that she needs to stop fighting, I don't think that's possible. They're as caught up in this as we are. We might as well make as best of a use of it as we can.”

In the fading sunlight, he could see Ben clench his jaw in frustration, and understood why it was so. Though he too did not want to see women involved in the war, both of them would be hypocrites if they did not acknowledge the fact that one of their childhood friends, Anna Strong, was also risking her life to ensure that their cause was won. Who were they to say who could fight and not fight?

“What happened to Samuel? What happened to my brother?” Ben asked after a few minutes of silence.

“Dead,” Selah quietly spoke up. “I'm sorry.”

As much as Caleb wanted to give his friend a comforting embrace in the still silence that followed, he settled for placing a hand on Ben's shoulder as he saw a faraway look over take his friend's eyes. Tears did not gather in the corner of Ben's eyes but instead, he had gone so still that it was as if he had been carved from marble. He stayed that way until the sun started to dip below the horizon.

* * *

_Nightfall, mid-moon rise..._

 

The eerie sound of a winter forest silence was always unnerving, but as Ben watched Caleb drag the rather large branch over to them and gingerly raised it up, the strange whine of _bzzt_ sang through the air and hit the branch, instantly lighting it on fire even as it was dropped.

“Put it out! Put it out!” he heard his descendant's panicked whisper before scrambling over Caleb and promptly smashed her tricorn over the fiery part of the branch. It was quickly stifled and there was no other sounds of the rifle shot coming towards them as the young woman settled down on the side of the mound again, this time in between him and Caleb.

However, when that blue-bolt that had tore through the air, it had also briefly given him a vague idea as to where Rogers or his men were. “I have a plan,” he said, and even as those words left his lips, he knew that it was the only option.

“Yeah? Do you mind filling us in?” Caleb said.

“Victory or death,” he stated, hearing the soft footsteps of someone trying to traverse the forest – most likely Rogers trying to ensure that his next shot came from another direction.

“No.”

“It's the only option we have, Caleb,” he argued.

“I'm not letting you go out as some decoy!” Caleb hissed.

“I won't let any of you die because of me--” he said, attempting to get up but found that his descendant had placed a rather firm grip on his arm and held him down, just as a hooting noise was heard. Silence filled the forest again before yet the same hooting sound of an owl echoed through the place.

“Reinforcements,” he heard her whisper, looking around. Even with the weak moonlight streaming through the gnarled branches, there was nothing that he could see except for shadows. The sounds of someone shuffling through the forest had also stopped.

“Shite, I don't remember the answer to that,” he heard Caleb mutter. “What was it that Carrie said it was? Was it the same response or a frog or--”

An unusual trilling noise issued from the woman's throat before Caleb could finish, and not a moment later, she said, “Judging from the length of the owl call, we probably have only one person, though its strange how he or she found us.”

“I'll take anything I can get,” Caleb said, shouldering his rifle at the ready position.

“And what's this about victory or death, nonsense, Ben?” his descendant said, pushing her face unusually close to his, enough that he was very uncomfortable with the distance that separate the two of them. Anger was clearly alight in her eyes, but even as he tried to shift away, she held fast and said, “You don't have any children yet, right?”

“Eh, he's still a virgin, Tall-girl,” Caleb piped up before he could speak a word.

“Caleb!”

“Eh, we all are until we sit in judgment in front of the Lord,” Samantha said in a flippant tone. “Anyways, my point being. Don't you go being a decoy. Otherwise, I won't exist. Leave the decoying to others...like me.”

As indignant as he felt with Caleb's admission, and the fact that he was not thinking about the future at all, he looked down until he felt his descendant pull away, letting the guilt wash over him. Robert Rogers was his problem, no others, but due to his inability to stop or capture the man, he felt guilty for putting his friends' lives in danger. It should have been his problem to solve, but perhaps with whatever reinforcement had come, perhaps this problem could finally be done with.

“Charge their lookout point,” he said. “Rogers is probably somewhere out there, and whoever our reinforcement is, may have seen where he currently is.”

“All right, Benny-boy!” Caleb exclaimed while he heard a grunt of an agreement from Selah.

“Copy that,” he heard Samantha curtly say before she sounded another strange trilling noise.

“Charge!” he ordered as he raised his pistol up, scrambling over the earthen mound and fired at the first shadowed silhouette that he saw running through the trees. The shadowed person pitched and fell, flinging something away from him. Accompanying his cry were the additional sounds of Selah's pistol, along with Caleb's rifle, and the _bzzt_ discharge of Samantha's weapon, and their own war cries. A second whine filled the air, lancing down from high above and into the shadows masses before deathly silence filled the forest again.

“Check the area,” he said as they stopped their advance and cautiously crept to the slightly higher ground that Rogers men had occupied.

He pulled out a small, packed gunpowder satchet, tearing at the edges with his teeth to allow a small opening and tipped the priming powder into the barrel. He spat out the piece of the satchet as he paused for a moment, thinking that he had seen the shadow on the ground move. Moments later, he continued to cautiously making his way towards where he thought he had seen Rogers fall, withdrawing the barrel stick and spherical bullet from the small bag at his waist. Curling what was left of the primer satchet around the bullet, he place both on the tip of the barrel and rammed it into the depths of the barrel with the stick. As soon as it could go no more and was packed quite tightly against the gunpowder, he withdrew the stick and placed it back into the bag. Stopping before the unconscious form of Rogers, who had been wounded in the shoulder by his first bullet, he merely cocked the flintlock back, ready to shoot Rogers again if he woke back up.

“Whoa there, Benny-boy,” Caleb's voice snapped him out of his reverie as he found himself still standing over the prone form of Rogers, with his pistol still at full cock and ready to be fired. He was cold, so damn cold, and he didn't know how long he had been standing there. All he remembered was heading towards Rogers.

“Ah, and the missing rifle,” he heard a familiar female voice speak up and turned, barely remembering to place the flintlock on his pistol at half-cock so that it wouldn't be accidentally discharged.

“Lieutenant Brewster?” he questioned, not sure if the weak moonlight was highlighting the strange sight before him or that he was too cold and delirious again. If it was Brewster, then she was dressed in oddly familiar clothing...which looked suspiciously like Washington's personal guards' uniform. He also realized that she must have been the owl-hooting 'reinforcement' that Samantha had indicated, and how she got here have had to had something to do with the guard uniform.

“Got it in one, Major,” the plucky Brewster said, picking up Rogers' discarded rifle. “Looks like he's still alive, sir.”

“And the others?” he asked, as he saw Selah approach while shooting quizzical looks at Brewster. Caleb had come around to the other side of Rogers' body.

“Wounded and knocked out,” Selah stated, looking unsteady on his feet, but still alert enough to respond to anything that may jump out and attack them. “Do we take them as prisoners, Tallmadge?”

“Yes,” he answered. “We'll need to find a cart, if there is one out here...and my horse.”

“Will do, sir,” Brewster answered, shouldering both of the strange rifles that she carried. “By the way, Sam is looking for your horse.”

Ben absently nodded in both acknowledgment and his silent thanks as he saw the woman slap Selah on the arm, indicating for him to follow her. Selah, for his part, looked quite offended and unsure at the same time before realizing that there was no point in protesting the seemingly improper mannerism that a woman should do. Fortunately, with a quick and unusually stern “come on!” from Brewster, Selah hurried after the woman.

“So...what do we do about him?” Caleb asked, nudging the foot of Rogers.

He sighed, holstering his pistol. As much as he wanted to shoot the man dead and be over with, he knew that Rogers most likely had valuable information that they could extract, especially since there had been reports of him meeting with the British Head of Intelligence, Major John Andre. “Blindfold him and tie him up. He's coming back with us too.”

“One hog-tied Robert Rogers, as you wish, Tall-boy,” Caleb happily said, as the sounds of cloth strips being ripped from Rogers' own clothes was heard.

Once Rogers was tied up, both he and Caleb lifted the man up as high as they could and carried him to the path. The trek was quite treacherous, owing to the fact that the thick bed of dead leaves and the weak moonlight obscured a lot of roots and rocks that could trip them. With some difficulty, they finally laid Rogers out on the path, and returned to the area where the other two men of Rogers' company had fallen. Tied in the same manner, they brought the first one down, the native, and it was in the middle of settling the injured man down on the path that Samantha finally returned with the horse.

Not wanting Samantha to potentially injure herself on the tricky climb up and down the small hill to help retrieve the third and final man, he ordered her to stay next to the horse and their two prisoners. That had earned a “always a gentleman” quip from Caleb, to which he merely glared at his friend before resuming the climb. By the time he and Caleb had descended, Selah and Brewster had returned, pushing a rather small cart that would not fit all three men on it...at least not comfortably.

Seeing no other choice, and not wanting to leave or kill potential prisoners with information that they sorely needed, he started to adjust his horse's halter and unlatched the rein from the halter before splitting the rein in half with Caleb's tomahawk. Samantha had taken to stand next to his horse's head, whispering something in its ears, seemingly calming the creature. He found himself feeling quite grateful that someone was trying to ensure that the beast did not bolt, especially after getting shot at and knew that when they got back to camp, he would have to thank her for what she had done today. It was not only her, as he quickly stole a glance over at Brewster who was checking the ties on the their prisoners' legs and arms. He would have to thank both women properly once they got back to camp... and he also needed to readjust his report to Washington on the women.

Readjusting the saddle so that it sat as forward as possible on his horse's shoulders and back, he also readjusted the blankets underneath, hoping that the pull of the cart would not cause the pressure of the saddle to chafe the skin so badly. Tossing one of the split reins to Caleb, both he and his friend hitched the cart so that cart was tipped down slightly to allow the leads to be tied with some slack. He would have to guide his horse by the halter.

“All right, let's put Rogers in the cart first,” he said after a moment.

“Robert Rogers?” Brewster questioned as she reached Rogers before he could and already hefted the man up by his shoulders.

“Yes,” he confirmed, wondering if the women knew of anything related to the future of Rogers, all the while attempting to take Rogers from her – it was very unbecoming of him to even allow a woman, no matter how strange or foreign as she was, to do such a thing.

“Oh,” was all the woman said, moving her body so that he was completely blocked from attempting to help her. He caught Caleb's half-apologetic yet amused look as he saw the two of them _swing_ Rogers as if he were a clothesline with clothes that needed to be shaken before taken in. Moments later, Rogers landed in the cart with a _thump_ , and as Brewster dusted her hands, she said, “Well, I'm sure that some of the girls and boys in the Legionnaires and probably in Putnam's camp would be thrilled to hear the fact that _we almost accidentally killed their hero._ ”

“Pardon me, but what?” he asked, puzzled and concerned at the same time as he crouched in front of the native, with Selah at the other end, ready to lift the second prisoner up. Was Rogers' future in this war for freedom _that_ vital? He refused to let the man go, but if clemency could be applied to Rogers' sentence, then where would he receive justice for the deaths of his men?

“He's a hero and an inspiration in our Army's Rangers units,” Brewster answered as she and Caleb positioned themselves on the third prisoner. “He wrote the '28 Rules of Ranging', reading that is required by all who pass through Ranger School to memorize. His tactics that he developed in the Seven-Years War and this one served as the ground basis for training all of our units, not just the Rangers. Without him, we wouldn't be as strong as we are now.”

“Has he written this 'Rules of Ranging' yet?” he demanded, nodding to Selah to lift the native up and carry it to the cart. They placed the body on the cart, with him curling the native's knees so that all of his legs fit in. Stepping back to allow Caleb through with the third person, that prisoner was packed into what was left of the area on the cart, with his bound legs lying slightly on top of the native's tied ones.

“I don't know sir,” Brewster admitted. “We'll have to ask him when he wakes up.”

He reigned in the urge to groan in frustration as he shook his head. Turning to Selah and asked, “Are you able to walk, Strong?”

“Yeah,” Selah said, giving him a grim smile. “Though I want answers once we reach camp, Tallmadge.”

“We will explain on the way,” he answered, before taking the horse by the halter. “Let's go.”

Their march back up to the main path that would lead them back to Morristown was slow, for even though the moon was still shining as bright as possible, his horse was overburdened and he dared not to make them go any faster than what the horse could pull at a time. Somewhere along the way, they had also found Ben's helmet, and though he was grateful to retrieve it, it had been snatched out of his hands before he could put it on. Leaving it be with the two women, who were whispering over something about the helmet, he continued to lead the small group back to safety.

“So I've been meaning to ask,” he heard Caleb say as he looked back to see his friend turning around so that he was now walking backwards while facing the two women. “Does old Georgie also have a counterpart in the future you're from?”

Before he returned his attention to the front, he caught a glimpse of the two women giving furtive glances at each other before Brewster said, “Yes. Lieutenant General Georgia Washington, though the circumstances of her ancestry cannot be verified. I think she's somehow related to your commander-in-chief. However, she is not in charge of the entire rebel army. General Charles Lee is commander of all of our land forces in the region.”

Ben coughed, briefly choking on air as he tried to clear his throat. After a moment, he said, “General Lee is in charge?”

“Yeah,” Samantha answered in quite a cheerful tone while swinging one of the two blocky rifles in a seemingly careless manner. The empty pistol that she had seemed to have been holstered somewhere on her, but due to its color, and the darkness, he couldn't see where it was. “He's in charge of the Eastern Division, which covers the states of Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Connecticut, New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland, Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Tennessee, West Virginia, Ohio, Georgia, and Florida.”

“How many 'states' were there before the reconquering?” he asked, slightly hesitating in speech, for he was quite surprised at just how much the soon-to-be free country had grown.

“Fifty,” she answered before taking a deep breath and started to sing a jaunty tune* that seemed to name all fifty states and what sounded like their capitol cities.

When it was done, he heard the echoes of Brewster lightly clapping and laughing while Caleb had a rather large smile on his face. He even saw a ghost of a smile on Selah's face, even though he understood just how befuddled the man was. He could also feel a happy grin crawl up the edges of his lips – indeed, even with the news about the death of his brother, the cold, and action that had happened today, the song seemed to alleviate the heaviness in his heart.

 

_(*jaunty tune is to Animaniacs's Wakko's 50-state song)_

~~~

The winter moon was setting by the time the motley band with their prisoners arrived back in camp. Unfortunately, during the middle of their journey, they had discovered that Rogers had woken up, necessitating immediate silence from the women. Caleb had immediately knocked the man back out with the butt of his rifle, but none of them knew just how long Rogers had been silently awake and listening to their conversations. Not wanting anymore information from or about the women and the future they were from to be potentially heard by their prisoners, the rest of their journey was made in silence.

“Ahoy there!” a patrol unit member called out as they turned the bend and saw the outskirts of the Morristown camp laid out before them. Despite the very late hour, campfires were still burning quite brightly and there were more than a few patrols carrying torches around the perimeter. Ben found comfort in such a reassuring look – the safety of those within the camp was priority, especially since Caleb had stated how easy it had been for a small group of civilians and soldiers to enter without detection.

“Prisoners!” he shouted, tipping his helmet slightly up so that they could have a clear view of his face. He had had his helmet returned to him by Samantha somewhere in the middle of the journey with the same quip that she had made earlier to him about his uniform. He still did not know what the comment meant, but judging by the tone of her voice, it sounded complimentary. He wasn't sure what to make of it. “We have prisoners!” he continued to say.

“Major Tallmadge!” another soldier, the captain of this patrol group greeted, as the patrol got closer. “Captain Henry passed word that both you and Lieutenant Brewster here and a civilian were meeting somewhere north?”

“Aye we did,” he answered, gesturing to his companions. “And we have also captured some prisoners, though they are all wounded. Fetch the surgeon. Brewster will see to their imprisonment and security. These three--” he gestured to Selah and the two disguised women, quite glad that it was not light out “--will be accompanying me to headquarters. Is General Washington in camp?”

“Yes,” the captain answered, nodding for some of his men to surround the cart while another ran off to fetch the camp's surgeon.

Giving a grateful nod to Caleb who immediately took his horse's halter and guided the beast away, he and the others were allowed to pass. As they traversed deeper into the camp, past the tents and patches of snow and ice that had not been trodden on, he took a deep breath and allowed the familiar smells of the camp to invigorate him. It had been quite a tiring day and even longer journey back to camp, but he knew that he could not sleep yet. Someone was most likely already rousing the general, and thus he would have to report on the day's events.

Removing his helmet from his head as he tucked it to his right side and gave a nod towards the guards stationed outside of the house, silently indicating that the three behind him were also to enter. He entered and saw that there were many candles lit in the various rooms that dotted the first floor. His office, along with the room that Brewster had been working in were the only ones unlit. As they gathered in the foyer and the door closed behind him, he strode down the hall and entered the enormous drawing room where Washington had made it his own office. The large table in the center was covered in various maps, while the smaller desk in the corner remained somewhat clear.

Washington was standing next to the maps, and looked up as he entered. The general's expression did not flicker, but Ben could not help but feel small and at the wrong for leaving without properly briefing his general. Placing his helmet on the corner of the table, he waited. The others who had followed had stopped and did not enter, allowing him to make his report and introductions.

“What news, Major Tallmadge?” the general quietly asked after a moment of decidedly uncomfortable silence.

“Sir,” he began, “we found--”

“Sam!”

His explanation was interrupted by what sounded like a squeal of joy as he turned slightly, stepping to the side and saw the younger Sackett breeze past the room's entrance, running in what looked to be a typical cotton dress instead of her strange uniform. He didn't need to look outside of the room to hear the sounds of the younger Sackett most likely greeting a long-lost companion in whatever manner people of that future greeted each other with. However, with Selah standing just outside of the door, he could tell that Selah was not sure if his sensibilities were addled or not.

“We have found yet another of these future-people,” he said, turning back towards the general as the sounds in the hall quieted down. “Or rather she found us.”

“Ah,” Washington merely said, still betraying nothing. “And may I ask who she is?”

This time he took the two steps to the door and looked out to see that the three women were conferring with each other in hushed whispers, though they looked quite happy. Sackett was standing behind them, though facing the entrance, as if keeping an eye out to ensure that there were no sudden intruders.

Had the women not been dressed in men's clothes, with the exception of the younger Sackett who was wearing a plain blue cotton dress that was accented with white laces on the ends of the sleeve and neck, he would have thought them as behaving in what he remembered as ordinary behavior for women of this time... at least he thought it would be ordinary behavior – he had not had much interactions with women around his age since he had been utterly devoted to his studies at Yale and also in carrying out his duties as the schoolmaster of Wethersfield – thus he could not count on his experiences.

His appearance, however, did catch their attention, and it was as if they knew what he was thinking, as Samantha broke away from the three, and approached. Allowing her to enter first, he also gestured for Selah to enter before stepping back in, saying, “If I may present Miss Samantha...Tallmadge, a descendant of mine, and Selah Strong, a friend of mine from Setauket. Both of them, along with Caleb and Lieutenant Brewster saw action against three people of the Queen's Rangers, led by Robert Rogers, whom we have taken prisoner. Mr. Strong here was released to pose as my brother, Samuel, in the Rangers' attempt to set a trap for me. Miss Tallmadge here discovered the Queen's Rangers' lingering in the forest during the prisoner exchange and managed to knock them out before any trap could be sprung. She rendezvoused with Caleb and Mr. Strong just south of Elizabethtown, just as I discovered their whereabouts. We discovered that Rogers had come to possess a rifle that is similar to Lieutenant Brewster's rifle.

“Due to our position, inferior weaponry, and the lack of 'cartridges' for Miss Tallmadge's pistol, we waited until nightfall to try to ambush Rogers and his men. I know not how Lieutenant Brewster made her way to where we had been, but she proved to be invaluable in launching our ambush. We wounded all three men and they are now being attended to by the surgeon under Caleb's supervision.”

Silence fell across the room again as the crackling of the hearth in the room was the only thing that attempted to give the place some life. Ben could see Washington's sharp gaze focus on Selah for a moment before giving the same unreadable look to Samantha. He was not the only one to notice that the woman did not demure or drop her eyes under such intense scrutiny, and strangely, he found himself admiring her for the courage she displayed, even now.

“Fascinating brief, Major,” was all Washington said before glancing down at the map in front of him. “The capture of Rogers is quite commendable, but in doing so, you have neglected your other duties. If I have my Head of Intelligence suddenly gallivanting off on rescue missions or springing traps, then where will the vital reports from the various agents go?”

“Sir,” he began but could not bring himself to meet the disappointed look in the general's eyes as he saw Washington glance back up. “I apologize.” He had nothing else to say for what he did.

But Washington was not done yet as he heard him say, “It also seems that Mr. Strong here knows of the secret and thus is now among the secret-keepers, and thus he has been conscripted into this army, under my direct command.”

“I accept, sir, of my own free will,” Selah spoke up.

“Very well, sir,” the general said. “Major, I expect that you will ensure that he is trained as a proper soldier under your command.”

“As you wish, Your Excellency,” he answered.

“And Miss Tallmadge,” the general turned his attention to Samantha who seemingly stood straighter, more at attention like a similar stance that both Brewster and the younger Sackett had adopted when they first met Washington. “I do apologize for the unpleasant words that needed to be said earlier, but I do hope that you will find this place accommodating. It is as I have told your companions, it may be that Providence has brought all of you here, but this is a time of war that we will endeavor to send you from and send you home.”

“Thank you, sir,” Samantha answered, with a wide smile splitting her face.

“Now, if I may?” Washington asked, gesturing to the matte-black rifle that was still slung over her shoulder. “How did Rogers come to posses such an item?”

“We were hoping to find out, sir,” Samantha answered, gesturing to those still outside of the room. “The rifles and pistols that we have can only be used by the assigned wielder. To have Rogers able to use something like this, is worrying.”

With an outstretched hand gesturing for them to leave, it was Selah who left first, followed by Samantha. Ben followed the two and finally Washington emerged. Samantha had handed the rifle to Brewster and with her leading the way back down to the room at the end of the hall, they followed.

Ben entered Sackett's office to find it completely transformed. Sackett's desk was in the corner nearest to the entrance, but gone were the various crumpled pieces of parchment that used to litter his desk and the ground. In the middle of the room was a large table, similar to the one that occupied Washington's office. In the further corner of the room was small table and chair, with a single notebook, quill and inkwell on the top. There was a thickly rolled up piece of parchment lying on the chair, and he had a feeling that it was a map of some sort.

It was the rather loud sound of the butt end of the strange rifle smashing into the table top that startled everyone except the women. He saw Brewster smash the end of the rifle again, before laying the weapon down on the table. With a methodical madness that gripped her as she wrenched pieces apart and off, the insides of the rifle were finally revealed...along with something else, something fleshy, thick, and foul-smelling that slipped out and onto the table. Accompanying the mass of decaying flesh was even more putrid smelling liquid, but fortunately, it was not much and managed to pool only half of the table.

Still, he heard the elder Sackett and Selah leave to fetch cloths to clean up the mess as Samantha walked over and picked up the fleshy mass with only her right index and forefinger. To him, it looked vaguely like a part of a hand. The younger Sackett had approached Brewster and silently separated the pieces of the rifle to the drier side of the table while Brewster had picked up a piece of the disassembled rifle and was gently tapping an end of it against the table.

It was then that the other two returned and Ben managed to snatch a couple of cloths from Selah's hands and joined them in cleaning up the mess. Samantha handed him what she was holding and he wrapped the decaying flesh up in a piece of cloth but did not throw it in the fire. Perhaps the women needed, and if not, then they would be able to burn or bury it. He hoped that the person whose seemingly had his hand cut off and buried within the rifle had seen a surgeon or was already dead.

“Putnam,” Brewster said after a moment, breaking the silence as they worked to clean the table.

“Pardon?” Washington softly said, stepping further into the room.

“This rifle belonged to our Lieutenant General Putnam,” the lieutenant repeated, holding up the item she had been cleaning. Even with the fire in the hearth going strong, along with the many candles that lit the room, it was hard to see how she had idenfied who the rifle belonged to. He thought he saw something etched in the metal casing of the object, but he wasn't sure.

“Does that mean he's dead?” the younger Sackett said, worry coloring her voice as she looked up from cleaning, catching not only Ben's eyes, but also Washington, who was standing near him.

“Knowing Rogers, or at least the history of Rogers and how he trained Ranger units,” Brewster said, “probably so. That--” she gestured to the cloth-covered fleshy lump “--is most likely Putnam's hand.”

“I was near Putnam's position before I was transported here with information for Washington,” Samantha spoke up as the younger Sackett abandoned cleaning the table and walked over to retrieve the curled parchment in the far corner of the room. He saw her unfurl it, revealing a rather large map that spanned what he knew as the northern most coast of Massachusetts all the way past the colony of Georgia. There were various lines and delineations drawn into the map, but there were also markers and indicators of towns and village names that looked quite familiar to his eyes.

The elder Sackett had also abandoned his cleaning of the table and helped his descendant hold the map as Brewster approached it, saying, “Both you and I, Carrie, were here--” she pointed to a particular area within the outline of New Jersey “--while Ben, sorry, our Ben was ordered to hold the line at Morristown. Lieutenant General Washington is amassing more forces at Valley Forge to push into New York, and Major Jefferson was ordered to hold the line at Philadelphia. Brigadier General Arnold is at Saratoga, Colonel Adams is in Boston and Lieutenant Colonel Franklin is in Groton. General Lee is at Richmond, also amassing forces, and Lieutenant General Putnam...”

“Baltimore, ma'am,” Samantha said, the tone of her voice no longer cheerful. It sounded quite indifferent with barely any inflection or tone that gave what she felt away. Ben had missed their transition from relaxed to disciplined, but it happened so fast that such a thing barely surprised him anymore. However, he could not help but feel that these three before them were putting a lot of the scouts and messengers to shame with just how much discipline each had when presenting information. If he could, he would start to change a few things within his unit – the cavalry portion of his unit was more disciplined than the infantry, but there were a few improvements that could be made to both areas of his unit.

“Your scouting report destination, Tallmadge?” Brewster questioned in an emotionless tone that sounded quite brisk, still facing the map, seemingly searching for something.

“Bound for Valley Forge, ma'am,” Samantha answered before reaching into her coat for something. When she withdrew her hand and held it up for all to see. It looked like a clear, multi-faceted rock of some sort, perhaps a diamond, but he wasn't too well versed in finery to identify it unless he had a closer look.

“Data?”

“Enciphered,” Samantha answered. “But there is a schematic on it that is not completely enciphered.”

“Does it look like this?” the younger Sackett said, letting the corner of the map she was holding go before going back to the desk to retrieve a folded letter. Bringing it over, she unfolded it and Ben caught a glimpse of the same sketch that Washington had first presented to the women.

“Yes! I can't believe someone saw it here! The files on this crystal were acquired directly from Director Andre's office.”

“Pardon my interruption, but Director Andre?” the elder Sackett said, pushing his spectacles up slightly before resuming his hold on the map.

“Major John Andre,” Washington quietly murmured before saying in a louder tone, “It seems that he also has a counterpart within this future of yours. Might we know what part he plays in your war?”

“Director, or Head if you will, of MI6, sir,” the younger Sackett answered. “He personally recruited not only me but others including Sam here from our time at Yale for the counter-intelligence program. His lieutenant, John Simcoe, recruited the others at Harvard. We learned everything he knows about our trade and specialization from him.”

“Ah.”

“Then Major Andre and Captain Simcoe can only be captured and not killed,” Ben stated, feeling quite frustrated. He had nearly broken Abe's trust by not killing Simcoe, and that had almost cost him his commission with the botched interrogation. Now, to hear that both the Head of British Intelligence _and_ someone who could be a very dangerous threat to his agents' lives could not be killed – it was absurd.

“This future you dictated seems quite unmovable,” Washington spoke up. “The terms seem impossible to follow and yet you claim that we are to eventually win this war and claim our freedom.”

“Respectfully, there is the possibility that the soldiers already have family back in Britain, sir,” the younger Sackett stated. “Their lineages may have already been secure. It is the here and now that harm must not befall the many Patriots.”

“Eloquently put, Natalie,” the elder Sackett. “You're starting to sound just like a lady born and raised in this era.”

“Thank you, but what I said is also true, General,” she answered, returning her attention to Washington.

“Then we will let God decide their fates,” Washington answered.

“Very well. However, there is one more report that all in this room should know,' the younger Sackett stated. “While investigating the scouting report on where the sketch was made, we found nothing of the sort. However, we were near the coast and saw several unit patches belonging to 2nd Legionnaires washing up along the shores at the mouth of the Raritan River. I could not retrieve any due to British patrol presences along that area. However, I believe that our Major Tallmadge and his battalion may have also been transported here, but may be hiding somewhere within the region.”

 

~*~*~*~

 


	3. May I Present the Lesser of Two Weevils, Your Honor

**Chapter 3: May I Present the Lesser of Two Weevils, Your Honor**

 

_Morristown, after the debrief..._

 

“Ah, if it isn't the great General himself, come to see me,” Rogers genially said as Washington entered the shed. The infamous ranger had been cuffed in irons on both hands and legs and was lying on the wooden pallet in this shed, being tended to by the surgeon. The other two of Rogers's group were being held in the cellar, but he would not be visiting the two unless they had useful information. It was Rogers, the dangerous and bloodthirsty man he had come to know via reputation during the Seven Years War, that would have most of the information.

“I remember as if it were yesterday,” Rogers continued to say, betraying no hint of pain that he must have been feeling with the bullet wound in his shoulder, “that you rejected my offer of assistance. Have you come now to reconsider?”

“No,” he simply answered, taking the stool in the shed and sat on it, nodding towards the surgeon to continue his work. “I came to see just how a man such as yourself obtained such a strange weapon that my Head of Intelligence said that was fired at him.”

“So the young pup is now your sniffer dog.”

If the goad was supposed to make him angry, it did not as Washington merely continued to observe his prisoner, silently assessing the usefulness of what he could extract tonight. He heard Rogers shift slightly, most likely in pain but did not want to issue a sound or anything that constituted weakness on his part and continued to watch the surgeon do his work. The fact that Rogers had somehow either killed a future general to obtain the strange rifle, or worse, managed to figure out how such a rifle worked worried him. Despite his orders towards Tallmadge and Sackett, he knew that current events were going to spiral out of control the more these foreigners stayed here. Added to the fact was that if Sackett's descendant's words were true, then he had no doubt that foreign forces not of the future United States of America Army, but of the Britannian forces were also roaming the land. The current Continental Army was not equipped to deal with such a threat.

“You will be incarcerated here until otherwise determined,” he quietly said, getting up from his stool. It was going to be a futile effort to attempt to find out how much Rogers knew about the rifles and the man he potentially killed to obtain it. Regular interrogation techniques would most likely not work on the man, and even though he despised Rogers and his methodologies, the man was still an officer of the British army – thus still needed to be afforded certain courtesies.

“You should have taken my offer two years ago, General,” Rogers said as Washington walked out of the shed and into the cold winter night. “The war is changing and it is not in your favor.”

* * *

_New York City, that same night..._

 

“Because without him, none of it would have happened.”

Major John Andre of His Majesty's Secret Services carefully watched the young business man abruptly leave after his most disheartening explanation to the usual questions that were asked at this drunken soiree. Something within the young man's tone about that story told him that it had been the young man who had instigated the terrible riot at King's College. However, as the entrance to his rented house opened and closed with haste, a rapidly uncomfortable silence was filling the air.

“Well that was bleak.”

Hearty laughter drove away the maddening silence, but he discreetly slid his gaze to the beautiful woman in the pale rose dress, whom the young business man had attempted a dalliance upstairs and had been called out on his indiscretion to the rules of this soiree. She was gazing towards the entrance with the most stricken look on her face, but a moment later, had erased it and replaced it with a more pleasing and demure expression. He glanced over at the others around the table, ruddy-faced and full of good cheer. None of them had given a second thought to the story – it was a consensus made without ever asking the question: Abraham Woodhull, businessman, would not be engaging in any trade with any of them.

The sounds of a glass breaking on the floor caught his eye as he saw the young woman in the pale rose-colored dress exclaim in quite an indignant fashion, “My dress!”

“I'm so sorry, ma'am,” Abigail, who had been trying to clear a few of the glass off, had seemingly knocked one accidentally off the table, spilling the claret. “Please, let me get something to clean that.”

As his maidservant got up to go fetch a cloth, walking behind his chair, he reached out to grab her arm, stopping her. There was a moment of fright in her eyes but it quickly disappeared as he said, “Don't think twice about it. Let it go, thank you, Abigail.” Handing her the empty glass bottle that he had been pouring into his glass throughout the night, he let her arm go and she disappeared.

The beautiful, dark-haired woman had also disappeared into the night, but he was not concerned. As he downed the last amount of claret in his glass in one gulp, he set the glass down and cast his eyes over to his own ravishingly beautiful, golden-haired agent. Tonight had been the first and most likely only night that he met two of the Culper Spy Ring agents: Abraham Woodhull and Anna Strong. He considered it a privilege to have met them, for he had already sent orders ahead to Setauket to monitor them and if necessary, kill them with the utmost discretion.

History had said that the two were to live long lives after the war was apparently won by rebel forces. Major Andre was hoping to change that historical footnote...for the better.

* * *

_Several days later, Morristown..._

 

“I can't breathe in this thing.”

“Just...relax, Carrie. You need to relax...”

“How the fuck did women breathe?! I can feel my fucking organs shift and re-align themselves right now and I'm not even wearing a corset! I mean, who the fuck put so many fucking buttons--”

The door to his office abruptly closed, muffling anything else that was being said by Brewster who by all rights was in a very foul mood. However, that action also caused Ben to look up from reading an entry in Sackett's 'tradecraft' notebook to see Samantha turning from the closed door, giving him a sympathetic smile. She was wearing a simple cotton forest-green dress that had been made in a similar cut to what he remembered Natalie Sackett wearing a few days ago. Though he had tried to suppress the thought, he had privately admitted to himself that Natalie's dress suited her quite nicely. As for his descendant, Samantha being in a dress brought forth a few fond memories of his dead mother, while he realized that the man's outfit she had worn when they had first met reminded him greatly of Samuel.

“How may I help you, Miss Samantha?” he politely asked as he closed Sackett's notebook and placed his quill in the inkwell, pushing all thoughts of his dead brother aside.

Upon acceptance into the growing number of people living in the house, Samantha had insisted with quite persistence towards him to not address her by her surname, but with her given name. She had insisted the same be said for her companions, Natalie and Carrie. He had politely informed her that it was not proper for him to address any lady that way until Caleb had interrupted him and called him out on addressing Anna by her given name when they had been younger. He had tried to protest that they had been children and friends back then, but Caleb was having none of it. Eventually, to not only shut his friend up but to also stop the nagging, he had compromised and now addressed Samantha with the appropriate honorific before her name. It was also with permission from Natalie that he too addressed her by her given name. As for Lieutenant Brewster, surprisingly, the woman had indicated that she greatly preferred being addressed by her surname.

Later that particular night, when he had making a round around the camp to stretch his legs and clear his head of cobwebs from staying inside the stuffy house the entire day, he had confronted Caleb. He had questioned the reason behind his friend's overly friendly actions towards the women, not only roping him into it, but also Sackett. Of course, Sackett had been tasked by Washington to ensure that the women had the proper covers and background stories so that if they were accidentally discovered by others in the camp, an appropriate excuse could be given. Sackett's nature was to ensure that all was protected and secured, thus Sackett had an excuse to get to know the women. Though Ben himself could not slake his curiosity towards the women and their far superior knowledge of intelligence gathering and dissemination, he had managed to restrain himself thus far from jumping down that hole.

Caleb was responsible for closing that distance, especially after Samantha had joined them. Though his friend still properly carried out his duties, there were times when their conversations would normally be about Abe and Anna, or thoughts about how the war was going, were now additionally filled with thoughts and opinions on the three women. Of course, Ben could not blame Caleb for wanting to get to know his descendant better, but that distinction, that line that Washington had laid down to separate their interests from the future's interests was getting quite blurred.

Caleb had not answered his questions. As non-committal as his answers were to Caleb's rhetorical questions during that particular night too, he was fortunate to have too much to do, and buried himself in work. But on those rare nights when he sat back and thought about the day, worry for his agents always seemed to mix in with worry about the women and the potential trouble or asset they could bring. No progress had been made in trying to find out what the foreign object that had been scouted was, and with more important things occupying Washington's mind, he had also taken upon himself to try to figure out if there was anything in the reports he was summarizing and compiling for his commander, to see if there was anything there to help send the women home.

“Mr. Sackett is in the midst of deploying our cover stories,” Samantha said, giving him a smile that quickly turned into a wince as both of them heard another muffled but distinctly loud curse from Brewster. “Carrie also hates dresses.”

“I heard,” he dryly said before asking, “What is the story that we will be adhering to?”

Instead of directly answering his question, she opened the door again, and peered out. It was now silent in the hall and she glanced back at him, saying, “Please follow me, sir. We're ready to begin the briefing.”

Finding himself grateful for a momentary break from his current duties and studying, he tidied up his desk, remembering to take the quill out and capped the inkwell before following Samantha down the hall. He glanced towards the door, seeing that Hickey, one of Washington's personal guard, back at his station – that is, standing just at the entrance. Hickey had been the unfortunate one who had been standing guard that particular day when Brewster had followed in his hurried wake towards Robert Rogers's ambush. Washington's punishment for Hickey to even allow anyone to strip him of his uniform and hog tie him in such a humiliating fashion was something that even he, Ben, knew not what. He had not seen the man in days, but now, there was a keen attentiveness to the man. Though he was surprised that Washington had not dismissed Hickey, perhaps with a second chance to serve, Hickey would not be caught so off guard next time.

At the end of the hall, in Sackett's office that had been turned into the future-people's room, he found both Sackett and Natalie, along with an unhappy-looking Lieutenant Brewster. It was quite apparent even without the curses that had fallen from Brewster's lips that she clearly been forced to wear a dress and had tried to fight. It was a plain and simple dark red color cotton dress, and she was tapping her feet in impatience.

The dresses that all three women wore were not the only thing that caught his attention. At the center of the table, where several days ago the remains of a hand along with scattered pieces of the strange rifle were lying on the top, it had been replaced with the most curious of devices.

At the end of the table closest to the door was a cylindrical device that looked as it were resting on several layers of cloth. Spaced at some interval between the rest of the table was what looked like several small spectacle lenses being held up by the remnants of the rifle from a few days ago. At the other end of the table was the small crystal object he remembered Samantha briefly showing them that night. He wondered what the strange contraption was, but refrained from asking the question as the door to the room closed.

“Natalie, Carrie, and I are three sisters from the colony of Pennsylvania being sent up to Boston,” Samantha began. “Our caravan was intercepted and raided by bandits just outside of Elizabethtown. Locals in the area helped drive away the bandits. We took shelter at a tavern and sent word for our uncle, Mr. Nathaniel Sackett, who came to fetch us. With permission from General Washington, we were brought here. Our stay here will hopefully be short and with luck, we will soon be on our way.”

“And now, it's your turn to question the validity of their story, Major,” Sackett spoke up.

He glanced at his mentor, puzzled as he said, “Apart from my prior knowledge of them, it would seem quite cruel to question their story. They've clearly been through quite a lot of trauma--”

“Ah,” Sackett said, raising a finger as he fell silent. “And there you have proved my first point in this spy business. All stories need a grain of truth for them to become real. Let this be yet another lesson that must be imparted. We speak now of theory. Natalie, if you would please?”

“Carrie, Samantha, and I are three sisters from Pennsylvania. We were being sent up to Boston where our aunt's family lives. Our caravan was intercepted and raided by deserters just outside of Elizabethtown. Locals helped us and drove away our attackers. We took shelter in a tavern and sent word for our uncle, Mr. Nathaniel Sackett, who came to fetch us. With permission from General Washington, we were brought here. We hope to stay a short while and will soon continue on our way.”

“Deserters,” he stated after a moment. “Not bandits?”

“Consistency,” Sackett answered, nodding. “All stories, no matter who is telling them, needs to be consistent. If you happen to have two agents or more working together, then whatever cover story or forgery they will display in their attempt to collect intelligence will have to be robust enough to withstand multiple instances of questioning.”

“I thought the point of the dead drops was so that the agents are protected?” he asked.

“Yes,” Sackett answered. “However, if we want this chain to expand, we must recruit more, and if there ever comes a time when say two of your agents must infiltrate together because it is dangerous for one to travel alone on the road, Mr. Culpeper's problems not withstanding, they must have consistent stories. Now, your agents may not be women such as these ladies here, but even then, spies can be anyone and be anywhere. You may think you're a gentleman in not further questioning how the women came to be here, but others in this trade may not be as politely kind as you are towards them.”

Ben frowned; yes, he was well aware of what he was engaged in was not the most gentlemanly of things, for spying meant lying to everyone else along with concealing truths. But there was a necessity to it, to the secrets that needed to be kept--

“If one of your agents is captured, how far are you willing to go to ensure that that agent is not compromised?” Natalie bluntly asked.

“I'd go and rescue that agent,” he answered. “I know that my two agents on Long Island will never give up names. That was one of the tests Caleb and I gave to Mr. Culpeper.”

“They may not,” Sackett said, removing his spectacles and briefly cleaned the lenses with a handkerchief from his vest pocket. “But other agents, and I do mean to say that we do need more than the two on Long Island, may not have that integrity as the two you've recruited. Question the motives of those who pass by these safe borders, looking for shelter. The British may use those seeking to escape the conflict or evacuate to towns on our sides to place enemy spies within.” The older man placed his spectacles back on as he let out a brief sigh and continued to say, “My point being is that these three women may not be the only ones who have been sent here by God knows what. If what they have told me about future efforts in collecting intelligence and spying, we may very well have enemy agents from the future already among us or with British forces.”

“Enemy agents in this camp?” he immediately asked, hearkening back to the fact that Caleb and the others had easily infiltrated the camp.

“No, not here,” Sackett answered. “I had these three in their soldier disguises clear the camp yesterday.”

“What of General Washington and his company?” he asked, worried. The general was currently away from the camp, having left to personally investigate troubling scouting reports on the New Jersey and Pennsylvania border.

“His company is secure, sir,” Brewster spoke up. “We mean not to alter history, but we deemed it important enough to bend it and spoke to him to allow certain persons to be left behind.”

“Thomas Hickey?” he said, briefly glancing towards the closed door to the room. His thoughts from earlier surfaced again and it now made some sense, but he couldn't help but question the point in allowing Hickey to continue to serve as a personal guard when he was accused of being an enemy agent.

“I am monitoring his movements,” Natalie spoke up. “They are currently not suspicious enough to warrant an outright arrest, and I believe that he is still bathing in the grace of General Washington's continued acceptance of his being among his personal guards – despite what Carrie did to him.”

“As the eyes and ears of our cause grows,” Sackett resume speaking, “and so must he who controls them. Trust is a very powerful weapon, as is absolute secrecy. You may be hesitant in allowing these three to participate, but you must also learn to use every weapon at your disposal. Lieutenant Brewster, Miss Sackett, and Miss Tallmadge have far more experience than you and I in this, but they are willing to help, only if you are willing to completely trust them and their actions.”

“What of the general's orders? What of the future?” he asked.

“Still a goal, but winning this war is our primary one now,” Natalie stated. “Robert Rogers and the rifle that he obtained is proof that contemporaries of your time are starting to acquire knowledge more advance than it really should be. To ensure that our future, however horrible it may be, may still happen, the thirteen colonies must win the war and their freedom.”

* * *

_Meanwhile, in New York City..._

 

When all was said and done, the only ones that would be left alive would be the victors of this war. Those words, spoken to him in a cordial and inviting manner still managed to haunt him. Even now, as he quickly and quietly descended down the shaft of the empty well, it still echoed in his ears. It was madness, pure and utter madness that consumed the land below the one that British forces occupied, but John Andre had no qualms as to what he had been requested – nay, ordered – to carry out.

His orders were no longer from King George or any of the commanders in this insignificant colonial war, but from a higher order. If he were a God-fearing man, then he would have already proselytize himself and lay before the feet of his new masters. However, it was not true and it was with agreement towards a mutual goal that he had pledged himself to what would seem like witchcraft in any ordinary person's eyes.

At the bottom of the empty well, he released his hold on the edges of the shorn ladder that had been discreetly hammered into the well's walls, landing on the ground with a soft _thump_. Brushing himself, he started off into the darkness, knowing that eventually, lanterns deep within the bowels of this place would start to show the way.

Just a few weeks ago, the well had been quite full of ice cold water and filled to the brim. He had enjoyed walking in this particular neighborhood, enjoying the rare moment of quiet in such a bustling city. It had all changed in one fell swoop when one day, a small child had accidentally fallen into the strangely empty well. He had heard the child cry for help during his morning walk and after rounding up a few patrols and rope, he had been lowered into the strangely empty well. Upon extracting the child, he had caught a glimpse of something very strange at the bottom of the well.

That same night, he had returned to the well alone and descended on a rope that had been securely tied to the well cap's post. The lantern he had brought with him, lit while at the bottom of the well, had revealed that the oddity that he had spied earlier was in fact a small rectangular object that was quite thin. When he had picked it up, it felt to be made of some strange metal and had a front that was reflective yet dark, and the back that was burnished silver in coloring.

There was also the completely strange feeling of wind blowing past his face, and as he raised his lantern outwards of the well, he realized that the darkness he had been staring into was actually a tunnel – an underground tunnel. No where in the map of the city had there been an underground tunnel, much less a network of them as he soon discovered.

However, in his curious exploration as to how these tunnels, carefully crafted and seemingly in a state of perfection that needed no repair, he had discovered who or whom exactly lived inside of the tunnels. He had been initially greeted by blocky and strange-looking rifles, along with lantern light that seemed too bright to be flame set to oil. Figures dressed in clothing that were definitely not of the world had spoken in accents that were as unfamiliar in speech and mannerisms as he was to them. He didn't know if he had fainted or the fact that they had most likely knocked him out, that caused him to wake up in a bare room that looked to be made from solid stone.

When he had next awoken, it had been to the strange sound and sight of a slab of stone that seemed to hiss and lift upwards, disappearing into an area he knew not where. Though he had thought he had died – the thought quite ironic to him for it was not how he imagined that his life would end – it was the person who walked into his cell that fully jolted him awake. A doppelganger, if you will, for the Germanic terminology he had learned in his youth seemed to fit quite well, of himself stepped in.

The doppelganger's eyes, chin, cheekbones, even hair and jaw, matched his own. The accent and voice, however, did not, but there was a certain way of speaking that the man before him that told him he was not in the afterlife. That was when he had been introduced to what exactly had happened and what was going to happen in order for the British forces to win this damnable conflict.

Now though, as he turned another corner in the maze of tunnels, he finally encountered two guards. “I'm here to see the Director,” he genially said they shined their strangely bright lanterns at him, while not quite pointing their rifles at him. He knew not how the brightness of their lanterns were created, except that the concept and devices were much more advanced than he could comprehend. If he were truly a God-fearing man, he would have run away, but he wasn't and it was what drove him to agree to the terms with his doppelganger.

“Name?” the guardsman grunted, still peering at him quite closely.

“Major John Andre of His Majesty's Secret Service.”

It was the same as always, and moments later, satisfied with his answer, they allowed him through. Continuing on, he soon stopped at a dead end to the tunnels and not a moment later, the wall that separated the roaming area from what seemed like the headquarters for these strange faction of people opened. He walked in, head held high with confidence that did not belay his nervousness in such a strange place.

“Ah, John,” a nasally voice greeted him as he saw a cluster of brown-black-green patterned uniformed me part to reveal a smartly dressed man with a thin and sallow-like face that encompassed large pale eyes, pointed nose, and a smile that seemed a little too insincere to be believed. The man had brown hair cropped short, but even then, he just had to mentally add a white powdered wig and dress the man in the standard redcoat uniform to identify the person. John Graves Simcoe, or rather, this particular person who had greeted him was clearly a civilian and most likely Simcoe's descendant, albeit with very similar features as his ancestor.

“Mr. Simcoe, I presume?” he stated, stopping as the man approached and held out a hand for him to shake. Taking it, he could feel the clamminess of the hand, but there was a very firm grip on his own as they shook hands.

“Yes,” Simcoe answered, letting go of his hand. “You presume correct. We've been awaiting your report. Come, I shall take you to the Director. He is currently in the middle of an interrogation, but he will not mind the disturbance.”

As Simcoe set off, John followed, well aware that most of the people in this particular area were staring at him. Of course he too was quite fascinated by them, but unlike him, they seemed not able to contain their curiosity. After all, the meeting of two eras – nay more than two, if the devices that these Britannia forces claimed to have planted throughout the known world was working – was a most curious of things. Weapons, clothing, even just the mannerisms and speech of these people were so different yet so familiar at the same time. Though a condensed and rough 'historical' summary had been told to him, he understood why these Britannian forces were _here_ now.

Under the guidance of the Director, he had written several letters to his own superior officers, knowing that they would eventually encounter advanced rebel forces that had been scattered when the device had initially shown up. According to the Director, there were already a few known rebel forces not belonging to this era, who had been transported. It had been inevitable as to their transport, for the device, though powerful, was not perfect. The letters that had been sent on the fastest riders they had were also of guidance and advise, though knowing his own standing within the lordship, the weight would not be powerful enough to persuade several of those in High Command. It was also the reason why forgeries of King George's seal and authority had been created by the expertise of the Britannians. In addition to the Director and his cohorts in this vast underground city, Britannian troops that had also been transported between the eras in time had also been slowly making their way to British fortifications. They were to blend in to monitor rebel forces.

“And here we are, Major,” Simcoe said in almost the exact same cadence and tone that John remembered his ancestor having.

He looked to the left to see that he and Simcoe had stopped before a chamber that he could peer into with no iron grids to bar their view. It was quite a bleak chamber, and within it was a woman who looked to be strung up by her wrists, shackled to the ceiling of the place. Her feet were barely touching the ground, and numerous open wounds covered where flesh was exposed. Her thin clothes were incredibly soiled and there was already a puddle of blood on the ground, indicating that she had already been tortured by her captors. He saw his counterpart standing next to the woman, mouth moving as if talking to her, but she had her eyes closed and was not responding.

They had entered this particular viewing area, if he could call it that, and it seemed that neither the Director or the prisoner within could see them. It was a very strange sensation to be privy and witness to such a marvelous invention, though on the forefront of his mind, he was quite curious as to what the Director was doing with the woman.

He had no qualms about torturing those necessary for information, though he much preferred to extract said information from women by other more pleasant means. Such beautiful creatures demanded a fine attention to detail and subject to scrutiny that only a master in the art of seduction and recruitment of such individuals could do. However, torture such as the one he was witnessing, or at least the after effects of such a session did sometimes prove useful. He wondered what information the woman had, for judging by the clothes, it didn't look like the woman was from his era.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Simcoe touch something on the side of their viewing window and a moment later, the Director merely glanced over towards something on his left wrist before stepping away and back out of the chamber. Quiet footsteps could be heard and not a moment later, John saw his counterpart arrive.

“Director,” he greeted, placing his right hand towards his heart and bowed ever so slightly. He would have stuck his hand out in greeting in the traditional way, but something about his descendant told him that he required a much more refined greeting, and so that was his usual one whenever he met with the Director.

“Major,” came the reply as equal in neutrality as his own.

“I've met the most curious of people a few days ago at a soiree that I hosted,” he said, jumping straight into the reason as to why he was here. He knew that he could not linger in this underground city without drawing undue attention to the residents of this place. Secrecy was everything until all British forces could be fully reinforced with Britannian forces. “Two of the Culper Spy Ring agents that you mentioned. A Mr. Abraham Woodhull and a Mrs. Anna Strong.”

“You left them alive, I presume?” the Director asked.

“Yes, but I assure you, I sent a man to follow them back to Setauket to monitor them and kill them if necessary.”

“Excellent. I hope to have fully extracted the necessary information that I need from this young woman here and her accomplice soon. When that is done, then you may tell your man to kill Mr. Woodhull and Mrs. Strong.”

“Then,” he said, gesturing towards the woman, “this pretty young thing is a descendant of one of them?”

“Abigail Woodhull,” the Director answered. “She was under my employ as an analyst until the outbreak of war. She, along with her fiance, Andrew Strong, whom I also have in custody, assisted two other members of the reborn Culper Spy Ring, though they are now calling themselves the Culpeper Spy Ring. My agents managed to capture Miss Woodhull and Agent Strong a few days ago, but they could not locate Agents Tallmadge or Sackett.”

“Ah,” he said nodding. He had been briefed and shown sketches – photographs as they had called them – of those in the future General Washington's spy network, and though these 'photographs' had not been distributed to British troops, John had created rough sketches based on the photographs to distribute to scouts. So far, neither had been reported as to being seen by British forces or their local allies.

“There is also another matter that I will need you to tend to,” the Director said. “Or at least soothe some ruffled feathers.” John waited expectantly as the Director paused for a moment, glancing into the cell before looking back at him, saying, “I am moving a small force under the command of Captain Floyd, currently stationed at Llyod Harbor. This is the same ship and forces that we historically know that Major Hewlett of the Setauket Garrison to have summoned when a small force of light dragoons briefly invaded the town to scare the locals into releasing known sympathizers. I will need you to draft letters and orders to not only Major Hewlett but also to Captain Floyd to ensure that these forces are received with open arms when they are transferred to Setauket at a certain time.”

“But sir, wouldn't it be wiser to just send them via land?” he asked. The routes to and from New York and into Long Island were quite secure and given how secretive these people were in hiding their forces, he did not think that they would have any trouble moving men to the troublesome garrison.

“As much as I agree with you, Major, this particular force will need to be moved at a certain point in time with much haste. Given what we could assume what Mr. Woodhull and Mrs. Strong have done in your soiree, most likely attempting a dalliance or distraction in your room to steal your old codebook, we should see Washington attempt troop movements sometime in the near future. If the path is still correct, he will be sending a certain Major Benjamin Tallmadge to Connecticut.”

“Ah, so he is a Major now?”

“Certainly, and quite well deserved. He is also now your counterpart as Head of the Continental Army Intelligence,” Simcoe spoke up, his tone surprisingly containing admiration.

“Yes, but back to business,” the Director said, redirecting their attention to the matter at hand. “Historical records indicate that he diverted to Setauket during this northward march and surprised those at the town in order to free sympathizers. This particular force that I will be directing onto the ship will travel there once agents in my employ in Connecticut spot him and correlate their data with those around Long Island. I mean to help you capture Major Tallmadge. If we remove him from the field, the Culper Spy Ring and Washington's intelligence will fail and this war will be over in a matter of months.”

“If he were that much of a threat, then I should have listened to Robert Rogers and reinforced his unit,” John couldn't help but mutter. “What happens after?”

“Pardon?”

“This, all of this,” he asked, gesturing to the walls of the underground city. “You said that this was to help us end the rebellion in the colonies. What do you after we win?”

“We prevent a second rebellion almost four hundred years into the future and ensure that the Empire maintains their grip for many centuries to come.”

* * *

_Morristown, two days later..._

 

“I sense that you have a question to ask, but out of politeness, do not.”

Ben felt his quill on the sheaf of parchment that he was currently transcribing a few notes on, slow of its own accord. In the silence that had stretched as they had worked on their own tasks, he had nearly forgotten that he was not alone in his office. Soft brown eyes that were usually sharp whenever he had seen Natalie stared back at him, though he thought he read some hesitancy in those dark eyes of hers – as if she was trying to determine if she was to adopt the persona of her demure cover or her usual frank self in front of him.

Two days ago, the three women had used what was left of the future General Putnam's rifle in the table contraption he remembered seeing, to seemingly peer into the crystal that Samantha had brought with her. While fascinating, they had burned the image that had been shown onto parchment, though they only managed to extract a small portion before they had to douse the entire contraption lest it start a fire. According to Natalie, the image, full of nonsensical letters and numbers strung together, was heavily encrypted, and for the past two days, she along with Samantha had been working on decrypting it.

He had been extremely curious about how the two would go about decrypting such an item, but Caleb had returned with an urgent message from Abe that had been left in the hollow of the dead drop tree. Upon seeing what Abe had sent to them, he realized that it was an encrypted codebook of some sort. The short message accompanying it had also stated that it had been found in Major Andre's residence in New York. Somehow, Abe had managed to obtain the Head of British Intelligence's code book – it was a miracle itself that Abe had not been caught.

That discovery had been a great boon to them, and both he and Sackett had begun their own decryption work, though Sackett had taken most of the work upon himself, having reminded Ben that he had other duties to tend to. Now though, with Sackett gone into Elizabethtown and taking Samantha with him as a part of his own cover, for the day, Ben had put aside the dispatches and reports to see if there was any way he could solve Andre's codebook puzzle.

While he would have left all of the necessary notebooks and other documents within Sackett's desk, it was only because of the quiet he wanted while working on such a task that they were moved. It had been quite apparent to him when he had entered Sackett's office in the morning that a drinking competition had happened the night before, most likely after he had retired to sleep. The only participants in the competition had been Caleb and his descendant. Why the two had chosen Sackett's office for the competition was not known to him, but between the empty bottles of wine and rum that littered the floor, along with three half-drunk ones that were still on the table, it had been a mess to navigate through. Added to that was the fact that Caleb was sleeping quite deeply under the table, with his legs tangled around the legs of a chair. Brewster was still sitting in hers, albeit in a fashion that suggested that she had also passed out from drinking too much.

Knowing just how insufferable Caleb was whenever he was woken up from a drunken stupor and the headache that usually accompanied it, he had quietly moved all of Sackett's items out of the room. In the middle of moving the items, Natalie had entered to also find what he found in the office and promptly moved her items out. Initially, he had offered the usage of Brewster's study that was adjacent to his office, but they had discovered that someone, most likely Brewster in her drunken meandering, had spilled a goblet of wine all over the study's desk and had attempted to clean it up but failed and left the mess as-is.

That had the prompted him to clear off the dresser in his office, allowing it to be used as a desk by Natalie. He had not spoken many words to her other than a 'good morning', along with a polite inquiry of her needs to the desk, before settling back down to work on his duties. With no messengers entering to pass on dispatches, he had become so engrossed in attempting to continue Sackett's decryption of the codebook, that he had forgotten about his 'guest'.

“If you will pardon my forwardness, I've been listening to the scratching of your quill for the past half-hour,” Natalie said, turning slightly in her chair. “You have been repeating the same pattern of several strokes before crossing out your thoughts.”

Glancing down at the sheaf that he was currently writing on, he found that her words were indeed quite true. Looking back up, he stated, “Decrypting Major Andre's codebook is proving to be a lot harder than I had anticipated.” While normally it would not be something that he would admit to anyone else, he was not such a prideful man to not seek help when he knew he needed it. Humility was the one thing that his father had drilled into his mind from when he was a child up until he left for Yale.

“May I see it?” she asked, getting up and walking over to where he was.

Seeing that there was no harm in her looking at the message, he handed it to her. She stood by him for a few moments, eyebrows furrowing as she stared at the letter before crouching down and slid the paper towards him. “He's clever, I'll give you that,” she said as she pointed to the first lines of the letter. “These three bunches of letters,” she indicated, “are encrypted using what we now call the Kautiliyam and Mulavediya methods. However, these next few bunches look to be encrypted in Caesar fashion. These next four lines could be in Scytale – simple but still puzzling if not unraveled correctly. But if Andre wanted consistency, he would encrypt all of them in the same methodology and not scatter them by bunches. I think that he's encrypted the entire codebook not only once but at least three or four times.”

“But its a codebook,” he stated, before remembering his manners and got up to push his chair over so that she could sit. “Why would he go so far to encrypt a codebook when its messages should be secure?”

His action with the chair apparently startled her as she glanced up sharply before looking at the chair for a brief moment and murmured, “Thank you.”

Sitting in the chair, she continued to mull over the letter with a pensive frown gracing her lips as he took the chair that was at the dresser and brought it over. As he sat, she stated, “Director Andre suffered from extreme paranoia and frequently encrypted even the training notes that we learned from. He called it 'an exercise in futility and in desperation' to ensure that we were constantly learning the methodologies behind encryption. It was also designed to help us develop skills to plant falsely encrypted reports that looked as if it were a worthy target for enemies of Britannia to target. Perhaps that paranoia or mental exercise started with the Director's namesake? The problem is, if it is true and Major Andre is using those types of encryption, which one would he start and end with?”

“Out of the four methods that you mentioned,” he said, picking up his quill again, “I am only familiar with the ones Mr. Sackett has had me study – Caesar and Scytale.”

“Kautiliyam and Mulavediya are from India. They have other modern names, but we still call them that – after their original cipher names. I don't recall in my studies of those two methods being used frequently by British Intelligence, but they were occasionally used by the East India Trading Company to combat rival trading companies' ledgers and shipping prices or manifests. The first one is based upon phonetic relationships between consonants and vowels that replace each other. The second pairs alphabet letters together and replacing those with their reciprocals. Those two can become very tricky, especially if you use not the English alphabet but foreign languages to implement the cipher.”

“Greek, Latin, and Hebrew are the most commonly taught and studied classical languages,” he suggested as he rewrote the first bunch on the codebook.

“Considering what I know of his counterpart in my future, then perhaps he will implement the hardest one first, which can be either the first or second,” Natalie speculated as she briefly tapped the letter before getting up to retrieve her inkwell, quill, and a fresh piece of parchment before sitting back down. “For his second layer, he might encrypt it in either the easier methods to decode – Caesar and Scytale. It's a feint designed for anyone who tries to decode it to feel as if they had won. Then, it is the matter of decrypting the final two layers, which will most likely be the second of the harder ones and then the final one.”

He caught her eyes as they glanced over at each other. “I do hope that your Hebrew and Greek are quite up to par, sir, for I only know Latin and did not study the other two during my time at Yale,” she said.

“Is the college so different in the future?” he couldn't help but ask. He had heard of private tutors currently educating a few women to the level that most contemporary men of his status were educated in. He wasn't sure what to make of it, but from her words alone, it seemed that education was equal for all in the future and that no matter what sex contributed to the debates in academia, it seemed that marvels beyond his imagination had been created and discovered. As curious as he was about such a wondrous world, there was also the lingering thoughts of just how chaotic it was, compared to the independence and freedom that they were currently fighting for.

“No, but the debate that you and Mr. Nathan Hale engaged in about the education of daughters and sons was still something that resonated in the halls of the school when I went.”

“Ah,” he managed to say, wondering just how colored he was in sudden embarrassment. For all of his studies at Yale, he barely remembered most of the debates that he and his friend, Nathan Hale, had engaged in. He did recall something about the daughters and sons' education debate, but did not remember too much about it. However fond of his memories of Yale, he did remember his father sending him a strongly-worded letter about expenses and his studies. “Pardon my curiosity, but what year did you graduate?”

“I didn't,” she answered. “I dropped out after I was scouted by Director Andre. With what happened to Mr. Sackett during this war for independence and his family in subsequent generations, I didn't want anything to do with espionage. MI6 forcibly took me in, but I never formally completed my studies.”

As tempted as he was to ask about Mr. Sackett's fate in the war, he refrained from asking. Though he was surprised by her admission, considering the clear demonstration of knowledge and intellect alone, her actions did match her words. He had heard Sackett mention more than once in private that she was reticent in providing information about spying methodologies and ways that they could help them search for the sketched object. It was quite clear that she only engaged in the trade she was forced into to help the cause that she believed in.

“You were forced into this 'tradecraft'. Please accept my sincerest apologies for asking you to help me with this decryption,” he said, sliding the letter so that it sat in front of him instead of in the shared space.

Abruptly, the letter slid back, as she said, “I'm not asking for your pity, Tallmadge. Your war for independence is as much as it is my war. We're in this together and if this is one step that I can do to ensure that we win, then I will do it.”

“Whoa Tall-boy, didn't know you've caught yourself a fiery one.”

Ben gave a start as he looked up to see Caleb leaning against the door frame, with the smarmiest of smiles on his bushy-bearded face. He also became well aware in just how close both he and Natalie were leaning towards each other, so engrossed in their assessment of the letter along with the discussion of how to proceed in decoding it, that their proximity could be constituted as scandalous – at least in his opinion.

He was about to lean away to make the distance a little more publicly acceptable, but it was her words towards Caleb that stopped his actions as she said, “Do I detect a small presence of the green-eyed monster you call jealousy, Lieutenant?”

Caleb's smile instantly disappeared as he said in a sincere tone, “No, ma'am,” and as sudden as he had appeared at the entrance to the room, he left.

Unsure as to what had just transpired, he wasn't sure whether or not to laugh at the fact that his best friend had just turned tail like an admonished dog or to shake his head in exasperation. He didn't get to do either as moments after Caleb left, he saw Brewster totter by, clutching her head and grumbling, “It's too fucking bright...someone douse the damn sun with water...”

“Hmph. I will be thoroughly amazed if we actually get some work done today,” Natalie said after a moment as he glanced back towards her to see her picking up her quill and dipped it in her inkwell. “Now, shall we begin this potential exercise in futility with the application of the Kautiliyam method in Latin and Greek?”

“Why not?” he answered as he too retrieved his quill and began copying down the first set of letters onto a clean piece of parchment. Putting all thoughts aside of Caleb's comments, he knew that there would be time later to mull over it. For now, there was much to do, and he did not mind the lovely company that helped him with the task.

* * *

_Spring, 1777, Morristown..._

 

“The answer was here all the time, sir. We merely needed the key!”

“The cipher key from Major Andre's own codebook, no less. Courtesy of our friend in New York,” Sackett said, looking quite pleased.

“Mr. Culpeper does not shy away from a bold play,” Washington answered, as a brief smile appeared and disappeared on his face.

It was enough for Ben to know that his commander was extremely pleased with the results that had been produced. However, he was aware that the credit for this breakthrough was not resting wholly on the fledgling spy ring. “Once Mr. Sackett and Agent Sackett deciphered it,” he said, “we were able to apply it to the encrypted dispatches we intercepted last month.” Indeed, when Sackett had returned from his trip to Elizabethtown, he had been surprised to see both Natalie and him working on trying to decrypt Andre's codebook. However, with yet another stern reminder that there were still many other duties he had as Head of Intelligence, Ben had reluctantly relinquished the deciphering exercise and returned to his reports.

In the weeks that had passed since his brief foray into a world of advanced enciphering and decryption, he had also come to learn a little more about his descendant, Samantha, and also of Natalie. While Samantha had completed her schooling at Yale, she too had been recruited by Director Andre in her third year before willfully joining the civilian international intelligence agency. Both she and Natalie had undertaken a few missions before the outbreak of rebellion and war, and when their friends started to sign up to join the rebellion, they had defected and taken everything they could from what they called 'databases' – or stores of prior knowledge – and tried to sabotage what they couldn't take.

Now having a better understanding of what they had done, he had abandoned the honorific title of 'Miss' and addressed them as 'Agent' – after all, they were respected professionals in their chosen way of life; albeit with odd tendencies and mannerisms. Samantha still insisted on being called by her given name, and he eventually relented to her demands, but only when Washington was not present. As for Natalie, she had not stated a preference nor had protested his continued usage of her given name, minus the 'Miss' honorific whenever Washington was not present. He was careful, though, not to address her by her given name whenever Caleb was around, not wanting to repeat the embarrassment of that particular day.

As for Brewster, she had been occupied with troop movements from their place in time on her map. The burned parchment had only been partially deciphered, for both Natalie and Samantha had tried to decode it in the past month but only managed to complete a single line. Even then, they had voiced their doubts as to the validity of what they had uncovered and cited that the crystal and contents within needed to be processed through 'computers'. What followed that statement was something that he could not comprehend and thus did not pay much attention to the discussion.

“And immediately the veil that had befallen upon our eyes seemed to have been lifted and we received sight forthwith,” Sackett said, bringing Ben out of his musings.

“Mr. Sackett, it seems, has undergone a conversion to faith,” the general dryly replied.

Ben tried his hardest not to allow any sort of noise that constituted as laughter to escape his lips as he heard Sackett said, “Perhaps because this is the first time we are able to see their moves as a deity might from on high--”

“Sir,” he jumped in before Sackett could continue his hilariously bombastic speech, “the enemy tried to take Philadelphia by sea--” he reached over for the black rook piece and placed it on the a part of the map “--via the Delaware bay.”

“All of our scouting reports argue that the attacks would come by land from the north,” Washington said, gesturing to the valley region north of New York City.

“They want you to think.”

“It's a feint, sir,” he said. “The dispatches indicate that General Howe has ordered 3,000 men to be withdrawn from Cornwallis's troops and quietly marched to Staten Island. Secretly, the royal navy has gathered over a hundred boats for an expeditionary force.”

As Washington stepped away from the maps and walked towards the stacks and stacks of reports, Sackett said, “The order has reportedly left Cornwallis quite indignant, though anxious as he was to personally thank you for disrupting his visit to his wife with that... erm... whole Trenton affair.”

Washington bypassed the reports and stopped at the other end of the room, briefly staring out of the entrance as Ben and Sackett also left the table. After a moment, the general turned around and addressed Ben, saying, “Major Tallmadge, you are to ready a detachment and rendezvous with General Arnold in Connecticut. Dragoons and milita immediately.”

“North?” he asked, puzzled. “But sir, we've just proven that the attack is coming from--”

“From the south,” Washington finished for him. “Which is why I will make plans to shore up our defenses on the Delaware, if you agree.”

“Oh,” he stated, finally understanding exactly what was happening. “Of course, sir.”

“Good,” the general said. “Now then, unless you think it's wise to inform the enemy of our plan, perhaps you will join me in convincing them that their plan is working.”

“A counter-feint,” Sackett said quite happily.

“You have discretion to act as you see fit,” Washington said, nodding before placing his hat on and left.

“I'll stay here,” Sackett quipped before returning to the meticulously organized table of notes and scout reports. Rifling through a few, but not making a mess of things, he said after a few moments, “Might I suggest bringing Lieutenant Brewster and Samantha with you?”

Puzzled, for it certainly didn't sound like a suggestion, he asked, “Our patrol northwards may not bring us into direct conflict with British forces, but nevertheless, the route to Ridgefield and Danbury may be fraught with scouts and smaller enemy units. A battlefield is no place for a lady, future or otherwise. Why?”

“I agree on principle that a battlefield is certainly no place for a lady, but their search for their own people, especially your direct future counterpart needs to expand. We cannot continue to send multiple patrols into nearby friendly villages without eventually drawing the attention of those at camp here,” Sackett explained. “It is also high time that I send my 'nieces' away to Boston in an empty carriage. I'm quite sure that they know how to take care of themselves, especially after what you've described during the skirmish with Robert Rogers, and having at least two people armed with advance weaponry and knowledge about espionage may help you.”

“Perhaps,” he said, nodding. He would take Sackett's advice under consideration, but aside from his discomfort at putting the three women, no matter how trained in weaponry they were, in danger, there was also the issue of obeying his commands. He was familiar with how his soldiers acted while under his command for they were quite reliable and talented at executing attacks and defensive maneuvers. Even Selah, whom both he and Caleb had been training, was starting to fit the mold of a good soldier. The women were unknown, and since he had already inferred that they were under the command of his descendant, would they even obey him if he gave them orders or would they go off on their own as he suspected that they were prone to do?

“What of Agent Sackett?” he asked.

“She will be staying with me. There are a few counter-intelligence reports that I would like to disseminate – with your permission of course – to see if the British forces will bite. There is also the fact that she has her assignment here, keeping an eye out for our Thomas Hickey.” Sackett placed the few sheafs that he had picked up back down as he strode to the other side of the room and peeked out of the window for a few moments before turning back and saying, “You should talk to the Lieutenant and Samantha, Major. Their soldier covers are quite ready to be fully deployed.”

“I will,” he said. “Though the Thomas Hickey situation still makes me uneasy.” Despite debriefing Washington about his concerns after learning of Hickey's potential actions, the general had dismissed his concern and had asked never to mention it again. He had privately complained to Caleb about his worries for the general's safety, but so far, nothing had come to fruition. Hickey still remained a guard member, occasionally rotated out so that he traveled with Washington whenever he was out investigating reports or traveling to see the other commanders.

“Both Natalie and Samantha are more observant than you give them credit for, Major,” Sackett plainly stated. “Not only are our camp borders safer than it has been for quite some time, but also towns friendly to us have provided more details about British patrols than we can usually fit into a short report. It's time we utilize not only them, but also the Lieutenant's potentials to the fullest.”

* * *

The colony of Connecticut was quite pleasant in the spring, and though her trees were not yet filled with broad oak leaves, tiny green buds were already emerging as the 2 nd  Continental Light Dragoons marched their way through the well-worn postal path. They were at least a two leagues from the shore, just having crossed the Saugatuck River an hour before, leaving the town of Westport behind. With marching men, light calvary, and horses in good spirits, they were making good time and would hopefully reach General Arnold's position by the end of the next day.

Sending forth an 'empty carriage', it had been quite a fun deception to play out in the camp, even though it had been done towards the late evening. The three women had been seen by a few reliable men in camp entering the carriage and bidding their goodbyes to Sackett. They had also bidden farewell to Washington and Ben, and Caleb had taken advantage of that to tease Ben by suggesting that he'd obtain permission from Sackett to write Natalie Sackett. That had earned him both a glare and reddening of the face from Ben, but as much as he bore the brunt of his friend's embarrassment and anger, it was well worth it.

Ben needed to relax and despite his attempt to be disinterested in the women and only interacting with them whenever the opportunity presented itself for military intelligence matters, he knew that his friend was quite curious about the women. There was only the matter of Ben's reticence towards them on a more personal level; Caleb heard the stories of Ben's fairly wild days during college, and remembered the days that both of them discussed what they found interesting in the opposite sex. Since he had been reunited with Ben in the dragoon unit, he had seen him weighed down by the burdens of his duties and drift further and further away from caring for his own self.

Glancing back towards the rear of the marching unit, he saw the rearguard carefully watching all around them and smiled to himself. Among the rearguard, sitting quite comfortably on a horse was his descendant. He had been a part of the rear guard for the first half of the journey, ensuring that their flanks were not ambushed by any British forces. It had also been his job to also ensure that the men did not dally at Westport after resting for a moment there. Couldn't have the men wander off to sate their appetites on the tavern wenches, no matter how friendly or beautiful the women were. In the weeks that he had spent among the company of the women whenever they were not busy with their own duties, he had found his descendant quite fun to talk with. It felt as if he were talking to a younger brother whom he could easily commiserate or relate to.

He suspected that Samantha also felt a brotherly kinship towards Ben, for he had seen her attempt to disturb Ben more than once whenever he was buried a little too deep – in Caleb's opinion – in his work. It was solely for that reason that he teased Ben about Natalie. Samantha was currently at the front, dressed in the blues of the calvary with her 'nifty' helmet – her words when she had received the disguise – sitting quite smartly on her head. He had heard and seen Ben's concern about placing one of the women in the advanced ranks, but surprisingly and again causing Caleb to laugh a little too hard, Samantha had completely disproved Ben's concerns. He had also been quite impressed in her equestrian skills, and there was nothing Ben could say to deter her from being embedded within the calvary.

Returning his attention to the front, he spurred his horse forward among the infantry and spotted a familiar face among the men. “Hey, look at the boy,” Caleb said as he heeled in his horse from a trot to a walk. “Army life suiting you, Mr. Strong?” he asked as he saw Selah look up to give him a grin.

“Better,” Selah answered, “since you swiped me a decent pair of boots.” The tavern owner briefly looked away before asking, “How far is the coast?”

“Coast?” he repeated, unsure why Selah was asking when just over an hour ago, they had crossed the crisp, cold Saugatuck River whose mouth could be seen miles away churning with the sea. “Five miles, give or take,” he answered, humoring the man. “Thinking of home, Selah?”

“Well, with the men we have here, we outnumber Hewlett's garrison. I say we return there, take back what's ours.”

“Right,” he answered, knowing how hard it was for even him to say it. However, as much as he wanted to agree with Selah's sentiments, practicality always won the day. “And when we do, we can stay there, until at least suppertime before the navy smokes us out.”

“It'd be a good meal though,” the man quipped.

Caleb laughed, “Yeah, I'm with you there.” Knowing that there was nothing else he could say to alleviate Selah's homesickness, he urged his horse forward and rejoined the ranks of the front.

“Fraternizing with the enlisted men?” he heard Ben ask as he drew his horse to keep pace with Ben's horse.

“Not sure he'd be full of spunk if he knew that his wife thinks of him as dead,” he answered. It had been the one topic that both he and Ben had argued quite extensively about when they had not been busy with their other duties. With the Simcoe debacle behind them, he had thought Ben would have learned not to keep secrets, especially ones that were personal to Abe and Anna, anymore. Ben had vehemently insisted that Selah not be told about Anna's status as a spy and the fact that the _Jersey_ 's ledger had one 'Selah Strong' listed as dead.

“I could have sorted this out if your pal Sackett allowed Culpeper and me to meet up instead of having him stash his letters in the hollow of an old tree,” he continued.

“Sackett's procedures are intended to keep both of you safe.”

“But these are our friends we're lying to, Ben,” he pleaded.

“They're agents,” Ben answered, and in a colder tone than what Caleb had anticipated. “They only know what they need to know. Anymore could put them in danger.”

“Right,” he bit back, “so Anna doesn't need to know her husband is still alive.”

“This isn't personal, Caleb,” his friend said in a slightly warmer tone. “It's a discipline – a 'craft' as Mr. Sackett calls it. The more we stick by the rules, the better it will be for all of us.”

Despite wanting to call his friend out on the fact that the presence of the women was already bending and possibly breaking whatever 'rules' that Sackett had laid down, he didn't. Instead, he kept his mouth shut as he clenched his jaw in frustration more than anger, watching Ben trot forward to be alone with his own thoughts for a while.

* * *

_A few hours later..._

 

“I can't feel my legs anymore, let alone something else of equal importance.”

Ben heard a soft snort of laughter from behind them that mixed in Caleb's chuckle, though he too could not help himself and grinned. He did not glance back, but he could see in his mind's eye that Samantha most likely had a smile on her face. Weeks ago, had he heard a woman laugh at the quite publicly inappropriate joke that Caleb had made, he would have colored in utter embarrassment and would have admonished his friend quite loudly. He would have then apologized quite profusely for allowing such words to have been heard by a woman – any woman.

Nowadays, he found himself still presenting proper decorum wherever he went, but was slowly acclimating to the strangeness and all together different mannerisms that these three women presented. Their mannerisms and speech were all together, foreign, but in the limited light of the public that they had been exposed to, they presented themselves demure conduct and utter respect. In private though, especially when Washington was not around, they were more familiar, more friendly, and seemed to shed their adopted exterior personas for their true personalities.

To hear Samantha's soft laughter reassured him, but also frightened him. He knew that he could not become too familiar with the women – they could not stay forever, lest severe consequences that even he knew not what could happen. He had kept his distance from them as much as possible, but with all that had happened since their arrival, that distance was rapidly shrinking.

“How much further to Ridgefield?”

“No more than a day,” he answered. Though the town was about thirty miles away from where they currently were, Connecticut was still littered with unusually large British patrols units and thus he had to take the coastal route up to Stratford, a Patriot-friendly town, rest the men there, and then double back north. They would then curve towards Danbury to bypass the British line that separated the coastal towns from the supply depot and muster point at Ridgefield. It would also allow them to take quick scouting peeks at what the British forces looked like, while giving the enemy forces stationed in the southern part of the colony the impression that Washington was moving troops northwards.

“I sent a scout ahead to alert General Arnold of our arrival.”

“Oh, of course you have,” he heard Caleb say, though the tone of his voice gave away that he was not impressed by the initiative and instead, found it quite amusing. “Now look. Don't be injured if Benedict Arnold ain't as excited to meet the famous Benny-boy Tallmadge.”

Ben mentally sighed as he said, “I admit, the man impresses. Imagine having your horse shot out from under you, your leg pinned beneath it. Instead of surrendering, to the regular standing above you with a bayonet, you pull his pistol and shoot him dead.”

“Yeah,” Caleb casually replied, “it sounds like a tale I tell about meself, which tells me, he's taking a bit of license.”

“Crushing dreams, one at a time, sir.” It was only because of how close they were riding next to Samantha that her whisper, done in as low of a tone as possible to mimic a man's voice, was heard. Others of the calvary portion of the unit had not heard the quip, and a quick glance back that was masked by him just pretending to scan the unit, confirmed his assumption.

Before he or Caleb could reply to that quip, he saw a couple of his scouts returning, but they were not alone. “Company halt!” he commanded. The order was repeated down the line “Private,” he addressed as the scout halted his horse.

“Caught him hiding in a ditch. Thought he might be a spy,” the private answered, “but he said he was from Setauket--”

Looking over at the simply dressed man on the horse, he blinked back his surprise as he recognized the man. It was Mr. Havens, his old schoolteacher. “Let him down,” he interrupted, getting off of his own horse as he heard Caleb do the same. Removing his helmet, he placed it on the saddle horn before quickly walking over to where the man was.

As soon as the other scout loosened and untied the ropes around Havens, he helped him down as he exclaimed, “Mr. Havens!”

“Ben,” Havens answered, engulfing him in a hearty, back-slapping hug.

Laughing with relief and joy and seeing an old friend and mentor, he let go and stepped back, allowing Caleb to come forward as he heard his friend say, “Well, look at you. What brings you to Connecticut?”

“A bloody-back named Simcoe,” Havens answered. Smiles and delight died on all three men's expressions as Havens continued to say, “Ever since he returned to Setauket, he's had it in for us Whigs.” The schoolteacher paused for a moment before saying, “Your father's been arrested, Ben.”

“My father?” he questioned, managing to keep most of the shock from his voice.

“Aye, and Lucas Brewster too.”

“Your father, my uncle,” Caleb said, turning towards Ben, “that's quite the coincidence.”

“On what grounds could he have been arrested?”

“Conspiracy,” Havens said, looking at both of them. “I left town to cheat the hangman. I doubt the rest will be so lucky.”

As Ben gave a pat of thanks and reassurance to his old schoolteacher, he turned and headed back towards the horses – a plan forming in his mind. “How many whaleboats could you round up?” he quietly asked Caleb, who had immediately followed him.

“What do you mean?” his friend questioned, looking surprised and puzzled at the same time. “To carry all of this lot?”

“Aye,” he answered.

“We're going home?”

“We're going home,” he confirmed.

* * *

_Dead of night..._

 

As silent as can be, whaleboats carrying as many of the men of the 2 nd  Continental Light Dragoons as possible in each crossed the great Sound and landed upon the shores of Setauket One by one, the boats slid up into the shore and as soon as the one Ben had been riding in halted, he jumped off the bow and turned to tug on the rope attached to the bow. They still needed the boats to get away, for he knew damn well that they could not hold Setauket, even if they were successful in driving out Major Hewlett's garrison.

Murmurs of the men securing other boats and jumping to shore were scattered, but all of them knew to keep as quiet as possible. “Four out of seven ain't bad,” he heard Caleb say as he saw him look out into the sound, hoping that the rest of the boats had followed. Crossing the Sound, especially with these many boats conjured up in such a hurry, was dangerous. Not only were the waters and wind unpredictable, there was also the fact that they had to be swift yet silent, hoping that British patrols out in the Sound would not catch them.

“Do you think they got lost?” he asked, staring out into the inky darkness.

“No, Selah knows his way,” Caleb answered. “Could be they caught a swell up near Fayerweather Point and wound up drifting south.”

“Then we wait for them.”

“Bullshit,” Caleb fired back. “You wait for them. I'm going to get my uncle before they hang him.”

“Nobody's getting hanged at midnight,” he said, trying to calm him down. “We wait for the rest of the unit and then we take them by surprise – all of us. My father's in that cellar too, you know.” Giving Caleb one last look, he then walked away. There was much to do and prepare for the assault, and so little time before sunrise.

* * *

_Meanwhile..._

 

“Sir, I think you should take a look at this.”

Scouting operations were normally left to scouts, not to someone in an important rank and position within the army, such as the one he occupied. However, with no way off the island except to keep pushing forward, which meant entering more dangerous and potentially history-changing territory, he had taken up scouting as much as the others under his command did. He trusted their reports, but there were times, such as this, that he wanted to observe with his own eyes.

They had been camped on the outskirts of this particular town, deep in the thick woods and hidden away so carefully that even the random hunter who would engage in their trade in this area did not spot them. From village to village, starting at the tip of Long Island, all the way down to this point, they had fought and freed each from British hold. Lives of the British soldiers that they took were minimal, but it could not be helped – especially since a lot of the British soldiers had panicked upon seeing the battalion's unusual weaponry. With each village liberated from their captors, at least 30 men and women under his command were left behind and ran interference with British patrols and status reports for each town.

Though each had a trained agent within their ranks, they were not masters of counter-intelligence and thus had to rely on forcing the commander of the British garrisons to provide falsified reports. Now though, they had been sitting on this particular town for the past week, carefully watching the comings and goings of its residents and those garrisoned there.

Setauket was the name of the town, and it was only because of a particular person he had spied within the town that he hesitated in giving the order to invade and occupy. Captain John Graves Simcoe, a prominent figure in historical texts, was someone that they could not afford to kill, and with what the man acted like in the past couple of days, he knew that the task would all be impossible. He could see the blood lust, the need for utter destruction and savagery boiling within the man, and knew that despite having superior firepower and men, Simcoe would gladly take any lives with him – British, Tory, Whig, or Patriot.

“Let me see, Private,” he said, as the man lying on the grass opposite of where he was turned to give him the most curious of an object – curious to those who lived in this era, not curious to those from another time and place. It was a matte jet black color like the weaponry they all carried, yet there was a small round lens on one end and two larger lenses on the other end.

Settling down and adjusting the settings of the binoculars, he set his eyes against it and peered through it to see what the private had spotted. “Ah,” was all he murmured in a hushed tone, as the edges of his lips curled up in a grim smile. Several long and wide boats were pulling to shore, all tinted in a green color as per the night vision setting on the binoculars.

He saw an officer, judging by the elaborate uniform with two epaulets drawn in a three-leaf clover style – the rather ostentatious helmet did not count – jump from the first boat to make it to shore and look around. In that moment, he zoomed in with the binoculars and gave a very soft bark of laughter. Returning the binoculars to the private, he didn't need to observe what other sorts of activities were happening at the shore – it was already obvious as to what was happening.

“Keep watch on the town until dawn, Private,” he quietly ordered. “Report if there are any unusual activities before then.”

“But sir,” the private began, hesitating before gesturing towards the far away coast that was most likely being filled with an invading force. “Shouldn't we stop them?”

“They're not Redcoats, Wong,” he answered. “They're the 2nd Continental Light Dragoons – Patriot forces.” Though the binoculars had only shown shades of green, it had been the helmet that he had recognized and pegged as the historical and celebrated legionary force. His own command was derived from that force; first raised in Wethersfield, then decommissioned after the first War for Independence ended, and then reestablished in the mid-twentieth century as a historical honor guard. Just after Britannia had started their crusade, the 2nd Legionnaires had been reactivated as a full US Army battalion. He had only received command of the unit after Colonel Sheldon had perished in a skirmish near Westpoint Academy during the opening days of the second War for Independence.

“Sir...that's--”

“Yes,” he answered. “That is the unit under the command of my ancestor, Continental Army Colonel Benjamin Tallmadge, though if I remember correctly, he's still a Major right at this moment in time.”

“Are we going to assist them, sir?” the private asked, though he detected a hint of awe in the tone of the enlisted man's voice.

“Perhaps,” he contemplated. “After all, Setauket is not only his hometown, but also mine.”

 

~*~*~*~

 


	4. I Thought Setauket Was (Mostly) Flat

**Chapter 4: I Thought Setauket Was (Mostly) Flat**

 

Sleep eluded most of those within the dragoons, but there were barely any signs of fatigue among them. As the first rays of the spring sun rose over the horizon, Ben heard the soft footsteps of Caleb approach.

“Sun's up,” his friend stated crouching beside him.

“Not yet,” he answered, holding up his hand to prevent his men from moving forward before the order had been given.

“Ben, sun's up and we still outnumber Hewlett, even with this lot,” Caleb stated, frustration and desperation lacing his tone.

“All right,” he said, knowing that it was futile to stay here, not when the men were rearing for action. Before he could give any further orders, they heard a bird-like whistle issue from the trees above them, causing the entire unit to crouch down. Before they had left Morristown, he had made sure that all members of the 2nd Continentals were thoroughly drilled in animal signal calls. He had learned that signal calls such as that had been commonly used by natives during the Seven Years War and that Ranger units also used that type of call – it had been adopted into the US military after the War for Independence had been won. The irony that he was using something that perhaps Robert Rogers had trained his own men to use was not lost on him, but he knew an advantage when he saw one.

Carrie Brewster, who had taken the last watch of the night, climbing into the trees to ensure that the camp was secured before dawn, had spotted people approaching them. Glancing up where he could barely see her, blended quite well into the thick branches of the tree she was perched upon, he saw her wave a small piece of white cloth in the direction of the people approaching.

Raising his spyglass, he peered into it and saw two civilians. “That's William Blaine and his son, Tom,” he murmured. They were carrying fishing rods, and from where they were, they seemed to have spotted something approaching the coast. Turning with the spyglass towards the water, he saw three whaling boats full of people, with Selah's boat in the lead, and groaned.

Even without a spyglass, Caleb had also spotted the approaching boats and heavily sighed, saying, “Now they come.”

Placing the spyglass down, he glanced over towards him, hearing the familiar faint sound of a tomahawk being flipped in hand. Alarm surged through him as he said, “He's only a boy, Caleb! Those are fishing rods, not muskets!”

“Getting soft, are we?” he heard his friend challenge in a tone that he did not like.

“They won't be harmed, Ben,” he heard Samantha speak up as she crouched beside Caleb, removing her helmet. “We're just going to scare them a bit.”

Before he could stop either of them, they sprinted off, leaving him to hiss after them, “What?! Caleb! Sam--!” He barely remembered to bite the rest of Samantha's name off, lest he give away her cover within his own unit. Pounding the dirt with a fist, he watched as Caleb tackled William just as Samantha reached Tom.

Whereas he heard some surprised shouts from William, Samantha had subdued Tom in an eerily calm and controlled manner by looping an arm around the boy's neck and yanked him down to the ground. He was not too familiar with wrestling and how it worked, but he knew that that such maneuver that Samantha had performed was not in the rules of wrestling and was usually accompanied by a knife to slit the throat. There was no such weapon in Samantha's hand and a moment later, he got up and approached her, gesturing to one of the other men to help Caleb secure William.

“He's alive, sir,” she stated as he stopped at the foot of Tom who looked like he was merely sleeping. The boy's fishing rod was dropped to the side, as was the tin of bait.

Hating to do so, but knowing that it was necessary, he said, “Gag him and tie him up and leave him with those keeping an eye on the boats. Make sure that he's next to his father.”

“Will do, sir,” she crisply answered, tightening the knot and bundle of cloth around her waist before grabbing the arms of the child to drag him the short distance to the boats.

While a part of him was relieved that both Samantha and Brewster had tucked their future weaponry into bundles of cloth tied around their waists, another part of him hesitated in allowing them to continue to carry them. If they got into a protracted battle, he knew that neither would hesitate to use their weapons to defend themselves. His men had never seen such rifles or pistols as the two carried, and he knew that they would be very uneasy with such 'witchcraft' around them. But he couldn't force the women to go unarmed, and thus, he let the weapons be.

“Parsons,” he said as he went back to where the rest of the men were. “Wait until they beach, then fall in. Sneak towards the north hill and ridge. We need the high ground, and that is the closest to the church that we'll get under cover. We'll start making our way towards their flank.”

“Will do, sir,” Parsons answered.

As he saw William Blaine and his son being carried towards the beached boats, he approached the tree where Brewster was perched upon and whispered as loud as he dared, saying, “Whaler!”

It had been Brewster's idea to adopt the surname of Whaler, because of what she had participated in before entering the military academy. He had a vague idea of what 'hockey' was, but was surprised that it was played on iced over lakes and ponds. He thought it had been played in fields, but apparently, in the future, people found it more enjoyable to play such a competitive game on dangerous conditions. She had informed both Caleb and him that she had been nearly recruited by a professional group of hockey players at the age of eighteen, just as she was completing basic schooling. The group had adopted the city of Hartford in Connecticut as their sponsor and called themselves 'Hartford Whalers'.

“Sir,” she answered in a low and hoarse tone to disguise her own voice while jumping down from her perch.

“Take whatever you need and go scout the town. I need the number of soldiers and civilians currently in there, especially those guarding the cellar.”

“Right on it, sir.”

“I'll go with Whaler, sir,” Caleb spoke up as Ben turned to see his friend dusting his hands together before adjusting the strap that hooked his rifle over his shoulders.

“No,” he sternly said. “You're staying with the main body--”

“Bullshite, Ben,” Caleb fired back. “That's my uncle--”

“They have my father and other men in that cellar too, Caleb!” he hissed, taking a step forward to close the distance between both of them to a confrontational level. They had managed to land without incident and nearly had their element of surprise blown by William and Tom – he did not need Caleb's hothead causing another incident. “And unless you want civilians caught up in the indiscriminate fire of the redcoats in the town, we're going to have to draw them into the field leading up to the church.” Not waiting for another word of protest from his friend, he turned to Brewster and said, “Go. We'll be waiting in the forest before the church hill.”

With a curt nod towards him, she quickly ran off, leaving him with Caleb. Despite Caleb's declaration only moments ago, his friend stayed where he was, but he was clearly unhappy. Ben knew that he could not deal with it right at the moment and settled for beginning to pass the word to the men that they were to move out as silently and as quickly as possible.

* * *

_Meanwhile, at Whitehall..._

 

“Captain...Falsworth?”

“Yes,” the man curtly said, with his hand still extended and holding the sealed letter.

Giving the tall, smartly dressed man another dubious look, Hewlett took the letter and opened it. Two days ago, just before the Magistrate had been shot by a still-unknown assassin, he had received a very strangely worded letter from Major Andre. Despite putting it through the decoder that he possessed, it still did not make sense until the 'Captain Falsworth' mentioned in the letter arrived only this morning.

As he read through the letter, he realized that it mirrored the other one and placed the current one down on his desk. Reaching for the other one that had been kept inside of his vest pocket, he pulled it out and laid it side-by-side with the current letter. As he read across both lines, the true content of the letter suddenly became clear to him. Both had been signed and most likely authored by Major Andre, and he marveled at the technique that had been placed into the dual letters for encryption purposes. One could read either letter, but without both, none of the words made sense.

“Ah, so I see,” he said, in an attempt to cover up the surprising information contained within the letter. “And will you and your men be needing quarters?”

“What's the matter, Edmund?” the croaky voice of Richard issued up from the couch he was lying on, trying to recuperate.

“No, sir,” the captain said. “We have brought tents and other provisions with us. If you do not mind, I would like to take a look at the church garrison. We heard that there may be some reinforcements that can be made to the defenses.”

“Yes, yes,” he answered. “We currently have two cannons along with an earthen barricade and stones to protect them. If you have any suggestions with regards to the defenses, please see Captain Simcoe.” The man gave a curt nod before leaving. Turning slightly out from his seat, he glanced back at the pale face of his friend, saying, “Thirty fresh men from New York have joined us at this garrison. After what happened to you, I sent out a messenger, requesting assistance just in case it was a prelude to invasion.”

How he managed to keep his expression as pleasant as possible while lying to the face of the one person he knew who fully supported him was a mystery to him. He didn't expect the ship at Lloyd Harbor to show up this morning, bearing men and supplies. However, it seemed that Richard accepted the explanation and nodded before closing his eyes once more.

Rereading the letter once again, he was curious as to some of the words that had been written, especially about the 'future', but perhaps, when the captain and his men had a chance to settle down, he would be able to see what these 'newfangled' weapons that had been delivered with the men, were about.

* * *

_On the eastern outskirts of Setauket, far and away from the town..._

 

“Sir, they've beached.”

“How many?” he asked, taking the offered binoculars and peered through them.

“Thirty total.”

“I spy,” he casually murmured, “with my little eye, not much for reinforcements for Hewlett, but enough to give Tallmadge and his dragoons a fight.” Placing the binoculars down, he scanned the horizon with his eyes, noting that despite the spring morning, it was still cold and thus the laser rifles would be able to fire more quickly than in the heat. Added to the fact that there was barely a breeze which gave the rifles little to work with for spreading a fire. However, buildings here were constructed purely out of wood and thus were extremely vulnerable no matter the weather conditions. They had to be careful if they got into a firefight.

“Sir?”

“Send word to Adams, Wong,” he stated. “Have him take what's left of India Company and hijack that brig. Looks like something that we can use as a temporary base of operations or protection for those at Sag Harbor. Tell Winters to take the rest of Echo Company and set up a perimeter at the south ridge. Don't activate the robotic horses or take them out of their storage cubes. Don't want to frighten the locals more than they already are. I'll take Foxtrot – we're going to observe the proceedings – I don't want to get into a firefight unless absolutely necessary.”

“Yes, sir,” the private smartly answered and scrambled back towards where the remaining members of the three companies of the 2nd Legionnaires battalion were patiently waiting.

Thirty additional troops reinforcing the small garrison in the town was nothing compared to the number of people that his ancestor had brought with him to free the Patriots. He knew that historically, the brig that brought the troops had arrived after the fact, but to see it now gave him a pause. It was not a huge concern, though he couldn't help but think that somehow, someone must have discovered the 2nd Continentals and ran off to request reinforcements. However, Wong had reported no activities in the town other than patrols being changed.

If history was changing slightly, then he knew that commandeering the brig would do little to contribute to that change. The ship itself had historically sunk a few months later after being targeted by privateers – perhaps usage of the ship until it needed to be sunk to keep history aligned would be beneficial to the towns and villages that he and his battalion had freed on the western half of Long Island. The garrison at Sag Harbor certainly could use the brig for defensive purposes.

Bringing the binoculars back down, he tucked it into a pocket before shimmying back down from the small earthen ridge that had served its purpose for this observational exercise. He didn't know how he and his troops arrived in this era, much less on the tip end of Long Island. With not only his second-in-command missing, but also his two counter-intelligence agents and two espionage agents, he was blind. He didn't even know how he would get through New York and hopefully either return to Morristown to see if it could still be garrisoned and defended, or rendezvous with Lieutenant General Washington at Valley Forge – if his commander was still there. At this point in time, waltzing ever so closer to British-occupied New York was asking for trouble – trouble he did not want to put his people in, and potentially change history with extreme ramifications and consequences.

He knew that he could also use that brig to transport his people to Patriot-occupied coastal Connecticut, but there was the matter of the future burning of the various towns in the state. He needed eyes and ears, and though for now, they would be able to hold the eastern half of Long Island, eventually, a privateer on either side of the war would try to raid them and blow their cover. If they took Setauket – as much as he wanted to – would the consequences be worth it?

* * *

“Around fifteen to twenty civilians in the center of town right now, sir,” he heard Brewster quietly state as she crouched. There are three redcoats loitering near the tavern, two at the docks, and two guarding the cellar.”

“Any inside of the tavern?” he asked before Caleb could get a word out.

“Couldn't tell, sir. Sorry.”

“Ben, its only seven of them,” Caleb impatiently said. “I can take Sam and Whaler here and go through the town. You've seen what they can do. We can get those in the cellar out while you and the rest of these boys take the church.”

“Sir!” the frantic whisper of Samantha, who had been scouting the perimeter of the area as they settled in the edge of the woods that bordered the heart of the town and the hill that led to the church, came from his left. Ben turned slightly to see her crouching as low as she could, while hurrying towards them.

“Something's not right here, sir,” she began without preamble as she stopped. Her normally calm and oddly excited demeanor in the face of danger was completely gone as he stared at her. There was a wild look in her eyes that betrayed the nervousness that she felt more than the tone of her words. “I can't find any evidence, but my gut tells me that something about the garrison is not right.”

“Right or not, Tall-girl, we can still take that tavern and get our families out,” Caleb said.

Holding up his hands to calm those around him down, he said, “Calm down, we'll do it this way. Caleb, take Sam and Whaler with you and go get those in the cellar. Whatever you do, don't use your fancy rifle or pistol on the redcoats. The townspeople are already on edge and we don't want to scare them even further. Get them to the boats and secure the area. We'll provide the distraction and then fall back. We're not taking Setauket.”

“Right,” he heard Caleb say before feeling him clap him on the back before sliding back down the small hill, causing a few dead leaves of last winter to crunch beneath his feet. “Be careful, Tall-boy,” he heard him say as he and the two women scrambled towards the thick of the woods, on their way to rescue those in the cellar.

Sighing to himself, he hoped that with the distraction that he and the rest of his men were about to cause, the civilians would wisely stay out of the way, giving Caleb and the other two the needed cover to ensure that their rescue attempt did not run into complications. They had the element of surprise, and as he pushed himself off the leaf-covered ground, he heard his men do the same. Unsheathing his sabre and holding it in his right hand, he also withdrew his pistol and held it in his left. The staccato of rifles being set to full cock, along with other sabres being withdrawn by those of the cavalry were heard.

Taking a deep breath, he held it in for a moment before bellowing, “Charge!”

As nearly one, blue-white coats along with the motley browns and earthen colors of those in the 2nd Continental Light Dragoons surged up through the edge of the forest, spilling into the lone hill field that separated the church from the rest of the town. The war cry that shattered the peaceful morning air of the sleepy little town sent nesting birds and seagulls squawking into the air.

As the men charged, they ran up and past the gallows that hung dry without a body and nearly made it two-thirds of the way up the hill before the soldiers manning the cannons started reacting. One ran towards the church to alert whoever was in command inside, while another tore away on a horse, galloping towards the other side of the hill to most likely alert Major Hewlett at Whitehall. Moments later, a significant number of redcoats spilled out from not only the church but also from the other side of the hill, nearly giving the Continentals a pause. Among those was the familiar face of one Captain John Graves Simcoe. Abe's report had only mentioned less than twenty redcoats garrisoning Setauket. Not counting the cannon crews, there were nearly thirty additional troops surging to line up to either side of the cannons.

However, Ben continued onward, rallying his men with a cry, “Forward!” They could not let those manning the cannons finish loading them. He could hear the shouts of an officer directing the British not to line up in the rows that they were accustomed to, but to _hide_ behind the headstones, earthen embankments, and carts that were scattered throughout the garrison fortifications. Simcoe was merely standing at the entrance to the church with an infuriating smirk upon his face.

His eyes widened in surprise as he realized that the thirty or so redcoat reinforcing infantry were _not_ ordinary British troops. However, they were much too close to stop their charge, lest they be taken out by the cannons. “Down!” he shouted. “Get down!”

Continentals flattened themselves into the hill as best as possible, just as many blocky black rifles were unfurled from bundles of cloth strapped to the British troops' backs and held at the ready.

“Fire!”

Despite his efforts, he heard the familiar whine of the strange rifles being charged up, except that this time it sounded like a chorus of wasps ready to attack. He didn't close his eyes and instead kept his chin on the ground, staring up at the white church – his father's church. It had been violated by the redcoats, and the headstones torn out to provide cover for the cowards. His anger was growing by the second, but he knew that he could not move from where he was – there was also no guarantee that he would even survive the first shot fired by the strange rifles. Instead, he tried to content himself with the fact that whatever distraction they had done to gain the attention of the redcoats, perhaps Caleb and the others were able to successfully rescue their families.

_Bzzt_.

Bolts of blue, so beautiful in sight yet so deadly as he had seen that fateful night in capturing Rogers, lanced through the air, towards the 2nd Continentals. However, a secondary whine, this time higher in pitch accompanied the bolts. A cylindrical object, no bigger than the size of Ben's pistol's muzzle landed in front of him and an instant later, something sharp seared through the air, deflecting the hail of blue with a sound that was similar to torrential rain pitter-pattering on the muddy ground.

“Foxtrot Company, covering fire!”

Blue bolts continued to lance into what looked like a spherical shield of some sort that encompassed most of the Continentals as he rolled over to his side to look back and see several strangely-dressed troops pouring out of the woods they had just occupied. Black blocky rifles were held snug against their bodies as an answering whine and _bzzt_ of blue bolts poured up the hill and towards the redcoats. Grass near the fortifications were lit on fire, as were a few of the carts that the enemy had taken cover behind.

“Fall back, soldier!” he heard the same familiar voice, in the same tone and inflection, but in a completely different and unfamiliar accent shout in his ear, just as a hand landed on his shoulder.

Rolling the other way, he found himself coming face to face with a face that mirrored his own, except that this particular person was dressed in the same type of green-brown-black patterned uniform that Natalie and Brewster had arrived in. There was a bowl-shaped green helmet on his head with a single oak leaf decorating the forehead center of it. As shocked as he was, it was only because of the two thunderous thumps on the strange shield above their heads that caused him to snap out of it as he looked up to see smoke rising from what he could only assume cannon fire had tried to hit.

Whatever was protecting them was giving them an advantage, and it seemed that his namesake descendant was responsible for it. Wasting no more time, he scrambled up to his knees and backed down from where he was before turning and shouting, “Fall back! Fall back men!” Holstering his pistol and sabre as he and his counterpart ran back down the hill, with accompanying thumps, he saw hesitancy in the footsteps of the Continentals, but they were being urged by men and women dressed in the same uniform as his counterpart to hurry towards the woods.

“Fall back to the town,” he ordered, just as he heard his counterpart do the same. He didn't know the range of the strange rifles, but considering how they easily turned a cart into kindling, lingering in the woods was not a good option for them.

“Sergeant Nakamura, take your platoon and fortify the main part of the town with what's left of the shields,” he heard his counterpart order to a woman. “Don't let those in the town see you – we don't want to scare the locals. And we can't have these lobster-backs trying to turn Setauket into a bonfire.”

“Sir,” the woman answered in a curt fashion and hurried off, calling for a few other men and women to accompany her.

Turning once more to look at the church as the muffled thumps of cannon fire hit the shield on the field, he saw something fizzle and spark on the field before a gold glow washed over the skies for a brief moment and then disappeared. “What is that?” he absently asked as he and the rest of his unit, along with the future army hurried through the woods.

“Prototype laser shield generator for field deployment,” his counterpart answered. “First developed by those in the Ministry of Defense prior to the outbreak of rebellion, but only certified to be used in battle recently. We managed to steal some from under Britannia's noses. Holds up well under enemy laser fire, and allows us to fire back without impacting our rate of fire, but I guess we've seen that several cannon impacts against it will cause it to collapse.”

“Ah,” he managed to say, surprised that he himself was not collapsing onto his knees or reacting in a panicked manner to what had just happened in less than a span of five minutes.

“Major Benjamin S. Tallmadge, commander of the 2nd Legionnaires, US Army,” his counterpart stated, but did not hold out a hand in greeting, as he glanced over towards him.

“Major Benjamin Tallmadge,” he answered, feeling oddly relieved yet giddy at the same time – he was finally meeting a descendant of his that had only been spoken by the three women with admiration. “2nd Continental Light Dragoons, Continental Army. Thank you for the assistance you and your people provided earlier.”

“My pleasure, sir,” Tallmadge answered. “If you don't mind me making a suggestion, my people and I will set up a perimeter around the town while you and your men head into the town and calm the civilians. I'd rather not frighten them even further by barreling into the town dressed like this and holding these laser rifles.”

“Perimeter?” he asked. “A defensive formation?”

“Yes,” Tallmadge answered, looking slightly embarrassed. “I apologize sir, I'm used to my lingo—sorry, my era's common tongue and military language that I keep forgetting that I'm not in the year 2177 anymore.”

“I have...become more used to it, Tallmadge... you don't mind if I call you that, do you?” Ben asked, still surprised at himself for not tripping over himself or his words thus far.

“No, and might I address you per your current rank or as Tallmadge senior?”

As much as he wanted to ask about the phrase 'current rank' there was a time and a place for it and this was certainly not the time nor place. “As you wish,” he said. As much as he wanted to continue the conversation, they were nearly out of the woods and saw his counterpart complete a few strange gestures that involved making fists, spreading his arms, and unfurling the fists to display several fingers. He didn't know what they meant, but not a moment later, he saw the quite well-blended infantry scatter, leaving the rest of his men to stream out of the woods and into the town.

He continued with his men and as he slowed his pace down to not alarm the civilians and the few redcoats who had been gathered near the tavern, though he dared not to take his helmet off. He didn't know the range of those strange rifles, and even though he had clearly heard his counterpart order his people to fortify the town, he still had doubts about the capabilities of the future-people's weapons and their functionality.

Taking Setauket had not been an option for him, but after seeing the capabilities of both sides armed with such weaponry, he had done a rough count of the men his future counterpart had with him – there were at least forty men and women with his counterpart. They _now_ had the numbers to take and hold Setauket, but should they? There was also the question of whether or not Washington would approve of his actions. He knew that he had gone into this on a personal level – something that he managed to suppress thus far, but he could not let his father or other Patriots for that matter, hang.

Glancing over towards the crowd, he spotted Abe glaring at him, but ignored the look and continued on his way. On the outskirts of the crowd, he also saw Anna with an extremely concerned look on her face. Ignoring that too, he spotted Caleb, Samantha, and Brewster approaching from the pathway that led to where their boats were beached, and made his way to them.

“We saw a laser shield go up,” Brewster reported without preamble, but did not elaborate.

“Town's ours,” Caleb supplied. “Only James Williams, John Bailey, and Arthur Sheridan were rescued during the chaos. They're with the boats. Don't know what happened to your father, my uncle or two others. They certainly weren't there when we searched the cellar.”

“They might have transferred them to somewhere in the middle of the night,” he stated, managing to hold back the frustrated sigh that he wanted to expel. “It was a trap; that charge up the hill was a trap. They had at least thirty or so men from the future dressed in the redcoat with those blocky rifles.”

“Shite,” Caleb breathed. “How many were killed?”

“None,” he stated before looking over to Samantha and said, “I met your cousin, Samantha. He saved my arse.”

“He has a tendency to be like that,” she answered. “Know of his current location, sir?”

“Well, he has at least forty men and women with him,” he said, before gesturing slightly around. “He also did say that his people were going to fortify the town to prevent the redcoats from burning the place. He's somewhere here and out of sight from the civilians.”

“Selah and Parsons should be in position soon, Ben,” Caleb spoke up. “They have the higher ground and can possibly shoot a few of the redcoats--”

The buzz of a thousand bees suddenly filled the air as all of them turned to see that up on the highest ridge that was nearest to the church, the small wooded area was being set ablaze by the hail of blue bolts. Ben saw the small trail of blue and brown-coated men streaming towards the safety of the larger woods that would lead them back to the town's center. Their high ground had been set aflame by the redcoat's strange rifles – they no longer had the advantage.

“Fuck!” Brewster exclaimed, speaking what was floating through all of their minds, as Ben thinned his lips in anger and frustration.

Pushing away the frustration, and knowing that after that particular display of firepower, Selah, Parsons, and the small unit they commanded would head towards the relative safety of the town. “We need to find out where my father and the others are,” he muttered more to himself than to those gathered around him. “Search every door and get everyone inside of the tavern, Caleb,” he said in a louder tone.

“Right.”

“And remind the men that no personal property is to be destroyed,” he added. To Samantha, he said, “Go find your Major Tallmadge, Sam. I need to talk to him.”

“On it.”

“Brewster, I need you to brief Selah and Parsons about what is happening here. Selah will have his hands full trying to calm the men down from the 'witchcraft' that they've just witnessed.”

“Aye, sir,” she answered before running off towards the edge of the town where the dense thicket started before turning into woods.

He had heard the whispers of his men and of the unnatural happenings that engulfed them, but he was quite well aware that as long as he remained calm, so would his men. He had seen Selah's discomfort at the strange weaponry and bolts of blue they produced when the three women had demonstrated them in a secluded area back in Morristown. He knew that the man had a good head on him, but without constant interaction with the women or having their presences around for as long as he had, Selah was at a disadvantage in trying to calm the men down.

He shook his head slightly as he watched the civilians slowly being herded into the tavern. It too was as risk for being turned into a pyre, but it was the largest area they could shelter them in. Keeping them out in the open was asking for unnecessary deaths. Perhaps it was a mistake for him to come here – perhaps he should have been more clear-headed when making this decision; he had made it personal and now, this was the price he was paying for it.

A few minutes later, he heard light footsteps on the dirt path approach and turned to see Samantha walking up to him, looking like an ordinary cavalryman who was about to give a report. “I found him, sir,” she quietly said before indicating with a slight tilt of her head to follow her.

Taking a last look around to ensure that his men were sufficiently busy, he followed her until they were near the edge of the town, approaching a blue painted house. He remembered that house being the bait and tackle shop, and it looked like it still was. Beyond the house was something faint that seemed to shimmer ever so slightly in the air – he realized that it must have been more of those 'shields'.

It took him a moment to notice something else: crouched in the shadows were several men and women, blended almost so well with the grass and shadows that he had to stare at their positions for a moment to see them. Crouched slightly higher, but still within the shadows of the store and out of sight for civilians still being rounded up, was his counterpart. The only reason why he knew that it was his counterpart was because of the short, stubby, light-haired ponytail that the man had tied at the nape of his neck – that and also his counterpart had turned slightly towards them as they approached.

“Sirs,” Samantha greeted, though Ben thought he spied a most mischievous smile upon her face.

“You'd better see this, sir.” His counterpart stood up and handed him a matte-black, slightly rounded object that had two lenses on one side and a single one on the other.

Hefting it up to his eyes, or at least the two lensed area to his eyes, he gaped at just how _close_ and clear everything further away from this point was. This was a spyglass, but it was much, much better than the one he carried. He quickly focused it on the cannons that were on either side of the church, noting the clear engraving of the tombstones, along with the details upon the cannon crew's uniforms. He then focused on the other redcoats, the ones holding the blocky rifles, before focusing on the church. He thought he saw someone moving inside of the church, but he wasn't too sure.

Placing the advanced spyglass down, he stated, “Thirty Britannian soldiers from your era?”

“Yes,” Tallmadge answered. “I have about forty men and women with me. That and yours combined is more than the number they have up at that church. I also have a reserve unit of another forty approaching from the south, but they're under orders to observe, not to fire. There are currently twenty men and women taking over the brig in the southern harbor. I can relay whatever action you choose.”

“Benji, satellites and radio towers don't exist,” Samantha spoke up.

“I can relay action orders,” his counterpart repeated, giving Samantha an indecipherable look before returning his attention to him.

“We only have three of the seven people they've arrested,” he explained ignoring the fact that he wasn't sure what a 'satellite' or 'radio' was, but it looked like the two were about to get into an argument. “My father, along with Lieutenant Caleb Brewster's uncle, and two others are still missing. That was our purpose here, Tallmadge. To rescue them from the hangman's noose.”

“We can hold the town,” Tallmadge stated with absolute certainty gracing his tone. “The 2nd Legionnaires are three hundred strong and we've already taken over every town and village under redcoat occupation from Montauk up until here. Sag Harbor is also under our watch. We can hold and fortify this town.”

Ben did not think he could ever hear arrogance in the same intonation as his own voice, albeit in a completely different accent, but he did. “Then why not already send your people to take Setauket?” he challenged, a sudden surge of anger rushing through him. “You could have already taken over the town and prevented all of this!”

“The Battle of Setauket was key in the continued growth of the Culper Spy Ring, sir,” his counterpart stated quite calmly. “If we took over the town, your people would have never continued their work and thereby would have stared a disastrous chain of future events. The only reason why I and my people are here, is because Britannia decided to fuck it up, _sir_.”

“What?” he impatiently asked. “What the hell was supposed to happen, Tallmadge?” However, before his counterpart could answer, he continued to say, “For these past few weeks, I have been extremely careful not to say or ask too much details of anything from your people – Agents Tallmadge and Sackeett, and Lieutenant Brewster. General Washington himself gave those orders because of the dire warning that Agent Sackett told us when we first interviewed them. I've been careful not to mess your future up, but right now, my patience is running a bit thin, sir.”

Ben saw Tallmadge place a hand across his eyes, raising up the bowl-shaped helmet slightly as he rubbed the sides of his head. It was a gesture that Ben was reminded of himself doing several times whenever he was frustrated while reading difficult texts in college. He wasn't sure if it were the hand of God, but he thought he felt a ghost of a headache echo in his mind.

Removing his hand, Tallmadge said, “Sir, I apologize for my earlier words. Had Britannia not landed troops, then you and your men would have been successful in rescuing all but two of those arrested. Unfortunately, I do not remember who the two were, but that is all historical texts would say about this particular battle. It enabled your Mr. Culper to continue going into New York and recruit more people for the ring.”

“Culpeper,” he absently stated. “It's Mr. Culpeper.”

“Guess he didn't change it yet,” he heard Samantha mutter. “At least our Culpeper is a Miss.”

“Oy,” they heard a shout, catching their attention as he turned slightly to see Caleb approach. The infantry around the area warily looked at Caleb, but seeing that neither he nor their commander reacted, they left him be. He turned back to continue to stare at the church – his father's church, sacred ground desecrated.

“Wow,” his friend said after a moment, as he felt an arm being draped around his shoulders and glanced over to see that Caleb had also casually draped an arm around his counterpart's shoulders. Samantha's giggles from next to them was not helping. “Ain't this a shocker. Two Tall-boys, and they look pretty much the same...except for the hair. Yours is longer Tall-blue-boy.”

Reigning in the exasperated sigh, he glanced over towards his counterpart who had a slightly annoyed look on his face, and said, “This is Lieutenant Caleb Brewster, sir.”

“You can call him Benji, Caleb,” Samantha immediately supplied.

“Sam--” Tallmadge began, his tone between offended and unsure.

“Tall-green-boy or Tall-twin?” Caleb asked, glancing over towards Samantha.

“Both!” she chirped.

“All right, then. Tall-boy for Benny-boy here, or Tall-blue-boy. Tall-green-boy or Tall-twin for Benji-boy here.”

“Oh my fucking God,” Ben thought he heard his counterpart mutter, attempting to step away, but was surprisingly held fast in Caleb's grasp. There was a pleading look that Ben caught in his counterpart's eyes as he asked, “How did you survive with _both_ him and Carrie?”

He managed to shake his head, but the moment of lightheartedness was gone as Caleb removed his arms from their shoulders, saying, “You're going to love this, Ben. You know them bloody-backs using the church as stables? Well, they're using your old schoolhouse as a magazine. Two dozen barrels of powder.”

“These shields,” he asked, gesturing to the still faintly shimmering thing in front of the bait house. “Will they last for a while?”

“Against the laser rifles, yes, but against the cannons, no,” Tallmadge answered. “That other one survived a few rounds. They're experimental, untested, and definitely unproven against weaponry of your era.”

“They have the higher ground, the firepower, and the cannons,” he said, frowning. “What are they doing?” Handing the strange spyglass over to Caleb, who gave a gasp of surprise when he raised it up and peered through it, he continued to say, “He wasn't lying about the gravestones. They're ripped out.”

“Unholy bastards,” he heard Caleb mutter. “Ah, here comes their leader. Bit foppy-looking too...”

Tallmadge immediately took the strange spyglass back and peered through it, while Ben retrieved his own, a bit annoyed that the quality of what he was viewing was poor. He saw the outline of a man standing near the cannons doing the same with his own spyglass. Placing his spyglass down, he said to Caleb, “Smuggle out the powder and any other military stores you can find.”

“Better do it quick, el-tee,” Tallmadge spoke up, continuing to peer through the black spyglass. “I think they're building something inside of the church. I don't see Simcoe anywhere, and that rat bastard cannot be killed.”

“Bollocks about Simcoe. We should've killed him when we had the chance. What about my uncle? Ben's father? The others?” Caleb asked.

“I can't see into the church, other than some desks that have been pushed against the entrance and a few people walking around with tools. Whatever they're building, its big.” Tallmadge pulled away from the spyglass and looked up and around. “These shields may not last.”

“Go,” he ordered.

“All right,” Caleb said with a touch of excitement in his voice.

“Sammie, go with him,” Tallmadge also ordered.

“Yes, sirs,” she answered.

“Riviera,” Tallmadge said, looking over to a grizzled-faced man who was crouched next to a berry bush. “Scatter the rest and set a defensive formation.”

“We're not holding the town, Tallmadge,” he hissed.

“We're going to have to,” his counterpart answered with equal ferocity. “We don't have a choice in the matter anymore. It's now obvious that I have a traitor and a spy within _my_ ranks, and when this is all said and done, wherever Britannian forces are, they will hear about Setauket. We have to hold it for the sake of both of our Spy Rings. They will kill everyone in this town if we leave now.”

“The rules of war--”

“Fuck the rules of war, Major! Gentlemen soldiers don't exist in my time. Britannian soldiers may look like the lobster-backs, but they don't fight like them. That hail of lasers while you and the 2nd Continentals were charging up that hill? That was for show. They fight just like natives, and so do we. It's what we call guerrilla warfare. There is no gentleman's honor in the way we fight, sir. Whoever sent them will be back with a bigger force, and your options is to either evacuate _everyone_ or defend the town. We don't have the ships or boats to evacuate. We can defend it – we can beat Britannia and British forces in their own game--”

“And what may that be, Major?” he interrupted.

“There's a purpose to us, being here,” Tallmadge said. “I sure don't know what it is, but I'll be damned if I don't find out what it is. They mean to do something to history, to change it, and right now, if we leave, they'll make sure it changes.”

_Whump! Whump!_

Both of them glance up to see the sky above them shimmer as two distinct cannonades slammed into the shield, leaving a dark, flat bed of smoke billowing across the curvature of the shield. The cannons had been specifically aimed at something and that something was the old schoolhouse. Ben could see Caleb and a few other people running back and forth from the schoolhouse, carrying small barrels of powder.

_Vzzzt--_

“Shit!” he heard his counterpart curse just as an extremely loud angry buzz tore through the air, causing him to look back at the church. A large, two-wheeled monstrosity about half the size of a horse with a long, thick, cylindrical barrel that seemed to be spitting out shots so fast that its impacts were causing the shield to flare quite brightly, was sitting on the front steps of the church. There was a redcoat manning the weapon, turning some sort of crank, but he couldn't tell who it was, for he was being dragged quite quickly back by his counterpart.

“Fall back! Fall back!” he heard his counterpart shout as he saw Tallmadge's people stream out of their grass and shadow covers and pull back further behind other buildings.

Shaking his arm out of his counterpart's grasp, he followed the stream of shots from the strange weapon and noticed that it was aimed directly at the schoolhouse. Caleb and the others were shouting for others to clear the area as they cleared the last of the barrels. There was a sudden pop in the air that almost felt like a short gust of wind blowing past them as he looked up to see the shimmering shield collapse. The steady volume of the angry swarm of insects rose to a deafening level as the shots tore through the schoolhouse and ripped it to shreds.

The noise abruptly stopped but there was still ringing in his ears as he saw Caleb run up to both of them, demanding, “What the hell was that?!”

“Gatling gun,” his counterpart answered, though he barely heard his words as he tried to shake the ringing from his ears.

“What?” Caleb said, shouting his words.

“A weapon that isn't supposed to exist until the 1860's. I don't know how the hell they got one, considering everything about those types of guns is either melted into scrap or in museums in my time.”

“We can't take Setauket with that there!” he said.

“We need to consolidate the other shields around the tavern,” Tallmadge said. “I'll give you a sit rep after I make sure its done and that my people are all right.”

“A what?”

“Situation report, Major,” his counterpart answered before briefly placing a hand on his shoulder, withdrawing it and left.

Ben turned from watching his counterpart leave, the ringing in his ears still quite audible, but it was slowly starting to lessen. “What did we get, Caleb?”

“Everything,” his friend gleefully answered.

“Well, that's the first good news that I've had all day,” he muttered. Gesturing for Caleb to go first, they headed towards the tavern. It was already enough that his men eventually would need to know what they were facing against, let alone what army had saved them on the hill; the townspeople were most likely scared out of their wits.

Entering the tavern, he removed his helmet and placed it on a table that was in an adjacent room. Stepping back out, he saw Samantha conversing with Brewster near the entrance, occasionally stealing looks towards the townspeople gathered. Selah was glaring at Mr. Dejong, while Anna was behind the bar. He caught her furious look, along with Abe, who was sitting next to a lovely woman holding a small child who looked no older than a year. From how Abe was sitting quite protectively towards the two, he surmised that the woman was Abe's wife and the child, their son.

“Oy! Are you going to burn down your hometown now, Tallmadge?!”

He glanced towards the man who had shouted the question – Robeson was his name – but calmly said, “It's the king's men who are burning it.” He glanced over towards Selah as he saw him approach Robeson, and hoped that Selah would not do anything rash.

“Take heart,” he said, looking back towards the crowd of civilians and the redcoats who had been in the town. They were beyond frightened, and he could only silently pray his thanks that none of them had seen the shield around the town collapse or the 'Gatling gun'. “We'll have them out soon enough,” he said after a moment's pause.

He was committed – and he knew that deep down, his counterpart was right. They had the numbers, and with the underhanded techniques of what Major Hewlett and his forces were doing, the rules of war had been thrown out long ago.

“Why don't you hold your tongue, Robeson?” Selah spoke up, brandishing his knife in a very threatening manner towards the man. “Before you lose it!”

“Selah,” he stated. They did not need the civilians to be panicking even further than they already were. Selah withdrew his knife after a moment and returned to where he was.

“Hewlett has weapons,” he quietly said to him, leaning in and turning his back towards the civilians so that they could not try to overhear him. “Weapons that have us in range and that can tear us apart. Do you remember what Agent Tallmadge stated that day you met her? About another Major Benjamin Tallmadge?”

“Yes,” Selah answered.

“He's the one who saved us on the hill earlier,” he continued to say. “He has at least forty men and women with him, armed with the same rifles that was used on your position and mine. There are another forty on the south side of the church near the harbor. He has also deployed a force of twenty to take the brig that most likely transported Britannians infantry here. Those at the south side have been given orders to observe and not interfere. I need you, Parsons, and the others to rendezvous with them.”

“We can do that,” Selah answered. “Lady Brewster also informed us that she, Brewster, and Lady Tallmadge only managed to rescue three of the seven. Four are missing, and we could not see them within his church. The Magistrate is also inside of Hewlett's church.”

Ben could feel his hands curl into fists in frustration and as much as he wanted to correct Selah on the proper address for the two women, he didn't. There would be time later to do that. “Our church,” he curtly corrected the more immediate need. “Let's take it back, hmm?”

Selah nodded before gesturing for some of the men to leave with him. He looked back at the departing men before catching the curious look both Samantha and Brewster were throwing towards him. Still the two women remained near the entrance and did not approach. It was better that way, he supposed, and better for the civilians – they did not need to add to their shock of women serving in his unit.

“Say something,” he heard a woman whisper in fear.

Glancing up as movement caught his eyes, he saw Abe standing up, looking quite angry. Ben didn't blame him for that anger, but it was surprisingly nearly absent as Abe stated, “Benjamin. The Major isn't firing on us, he's firing on you. Now, whatever you boys came here to prove, I think you've proved it. But, I'm telling you right now, you will never take that garrison. All you're going to do is get these people killed.”

Settling for a curious yet calm look, he wished that he could tell Abe what was going on, what with all the men they had, but there were just some things that he wished his best friend would shut up about. Like this particular demoralizing statement that was clear for all of his men in range to hear. “Is that your wife, Woodhull?” he asked, nodding towards the lovely woman sitting fearfully next to Abe. “And your son?”

“Yes,” Abe answered, “yes it is.”

“It's very fine to meet you, Mrs. Woodhull,” he said, tilting his head slightly in deference to the fiercely proud-looking woman who tried to vainly hide her fear. “I seem to remember your husband as a much quieter man.”

“Quieter?” he heard Abe scoff. “What is going on out there, Ben? Those were not the sounds of cannons firing, and certainly not the sounds of rifles being discharged.”

“Major Hewlett--”

“It's likely Captain Simcoe,” Abe interrupted, the pure anger in the tone of his voice causing his son to start crying. “You may not know of him, but he's less subtle than the Major.”

Ben narrowed his eyes slightly as he briefly thought about Abe's words and the missives that had been passed onto him about the conditions in Setauket before all of this. “They mean to hold out until reinforcements arrive,” he carefully stated. “Surrender--”

“Hewlett will never surrender to you! And Simcoe will shoot down any Continental who approaches the church!” Abe interrupted again.

“Well, maybe we'll use his men to shield us,” Caleb said, making his way through the crowd and tables to grab one of the redcoats while pointing his pistol at him. “Maybe this might make them stop trying to burn down the town, after all, by proxy, they're using everyone here as shields.”

“Leave him be!” Anna shouted from where she was. “If you say you're better than them, then show it by your restraint, Brewster.”

“The Major is a fair man,” the redcoat said. “He will respect a flag of truce.”

Ben considered the man's words for a few moments before quietly saying, “Selah said that he saw your father in the church, Abe. We don't know where our families are, which makes you the perfect man to deliver our terms.” He saw Caleb roughly pushed the redcoat away upon hearing his words before approaching Abe. “Let's take him somewhere private, yeah?” he continued to say as he saw Caleb roughly haul their friend up and out of his seat, much to the frightened protests of Abe's wife.

“Don't worry ma'am,” Caleb said to Abe's wife. “It's all right. We just need your husband to send a message. We're not going to hurt him.”

Ben managed to keep the wince off of his face as he saw Caleb punch Abe quite hard in the stomach before calling out to Anna, saying, “Mrs. Strong, would you kindly open the cellar for us?” It would be a much quieter place for him to discuss and inform his agents as to the situation and hopefully calm both of them down.

Following the three out into the sun, he briefly shielded his eyes with his hand before continuing towards the back of the tavern. He could not see his counterpart anywhere, but he could see the various people of the forty-strong army that he had brought with him standing clear in the open. They had their rifles in their hands, but instead of looking towards them or the men of the 2nd Continentals, they were warily watching the outskirts and the church.

Both Abe and Anna were openly gaping at such strangeness, and it was only because Caleb hauled Abe by the arm that they continued down into the cellar. As he closed the above-ground doors to the cellar, he caught a glimpse of Samantha and Brewster approaching. However, they waved to him to continue with his task and in that silent gesture, he knew that they were going to stand guard above the doors, ensuring that no one was able to interrupt.

Descending into the cellar proper, he saw Abe haul Caleb up by the front of his vest and slam him into a foundation post, as Caleb said, “Hey! Hey! Just keeping up the ruse, Woody. All right?”

As he closed the inner doors, he saw Abe let Caleb go, but immediately round towards him shouting, “Ben! What the hell is this?!”

“Shh!” Anna hissed. “You want them to hear us up there?!”

“Abe,” he said, raising his hands up slightly in placation, “I'm sorry. I couldn't send a warning – there was no time. It was only by God's good grace that we came across Walter Havens. He told us about the hangings.”

“There were no hangings!”

“What?” he questioned.

“Not until you showed up,” Abe said, anger clearly shining in his eyes. “I had convinced Hewlett to commute their sentences. They were bound instead for the _Jersey_.”

Caleb gave a bark of absurd laughter, saying, “Ah, the _Jersey_. Because that ain't a death sentence, is it?”

“Apparently, it's not,” Anna spoke up, hurt coloring the tone of her voice, “I stood on the deck of that ship and had the warden tell me that Selah died there over Christmas. I have lived with that belief since we were last in New York, spying for you. Surely you had time enough to warn me that my husband was alive and serving alongside you both.”

He took a deep breath, knowing that what he did was not the best of intentions, but rather designed to protect his friends. They at least had a right to know or at least know some of why he did it. “Look... Anna, I'm sorry. It was my decision. Caleb wanted to tell you, but I said no. The truth is, your husband is alive because my brother is dead. Robert Rogers used the promise of Samuel as bait to trap me.”

“Samuel is dead?” Abe whispered.

He nodded in confirmation, feeling his words trying to stick in his throat, but managed to get them out, saying, “Selah was with him when he passed. So I can confirm for you that yes, the _Jersey_ is a death sentence, and wherever my father is, I will not see him there.”

“So... so this raid is family business? It's personal?” Abe suddenly said in a low tone as he crossed his arms over his chest.

“You're saying that you wouldn't do the same?” Caleb asked. “And where are my uncle, Ben's father, and the other two?”

Glancing down for a moment before looking back up, he saw Abe briefly shake his head slightly as he said, “I don't know where they are, but I'm just saying that this whole thing makes sense, is all. More sense than Washington sending you both here anyway.”

“He granted me discretion to advance my mission as I see fit,” he stated.

“Oh, I see,” Abe said, condescension coloring his tone as he uncrossed his arms. “So you're going to have to explain it all to him, then. Good.” Ben felt a brief push of Abe's hands on his chest in anger as the farmer continued to say, “When you do, please inform 711 that his precious Mr. Culpeper is finished. I'm out.”

His eyes widened for a moment before he said, “No, nobody is out. Your standing in this town is intact and I intend to keep it that way.” He could not lose Abe, not right now. Abe was the eyes and ears they needed into New York City – he could not let his general down no matter what.

“I'm not a soldier in your army, Major,” his friend replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “I don't have to take your orders. But you're right about one thing. My standing in this town is all that you've got left. Now I wasn't lying when I told you Hewlett would never surrender. And you know there's no chance that you take that church before some force on this island shows up.”

“A force might, but we have the numbers,” he said as Caleb separated them by shoving himself in between them. Gesturing towards the cellar entrance, he said, “Those people you just passed, they're part of it. There are forty of them right here and now, and forty more on the south side. Selah is already on his way to meet them. That brig on the harbor – its being taken over by twenty others.”

“What?” Anna whispered.

“A force,” Abe stated, looking quite dubious. “Yes, you might have more men than Hewlett, but what the hell are those things they shot? And who the hell are those people? They certainly don't look like the Iroquois that your father described.”

“They're soldiers of the United States of America Army, Mr. Woodhull.”

Anna gave a frightened shout while Abe immediately backed towards the entrance, but Ben recognized the voice that had spoken from the shadows of the cellar and put a hand out to prevent Abe from running out of the cellar. Emerging from where a few casks of wine and ale were sitting in the far corner of the cellar, gathering dust and age, was his counterpart. However, in the slits of light that came from the floorboards and what little streamed through the wooden doors, he saw that there were earthen-colored paint markings on his counterpart's face. That and added with the bowl-shaped helmet that shaded his eyes, he almost didn't recognize him at all. There was a strap slung over his shoulders, and Ben could only assume that the blocky rifle his counterpart carried was slung across his back.

“Who-who the hell are you?” Abe demanded.

“A trusted... friend,” he interjected before his counterpart could answer, turning towards Abe and Anna, noticing that Caleb was sporting a quizzical look. “He's the commander of those strangely-dressed people you passed out there.”

“Benny-boy, you might just want to outright tell them,” Caleb suggested. “We can't keep this big of a secret forever.”

“Sit down, Abe,” he said after a moment, knowing that his friend's words were indeed correct. Looking over to Anna, he said, “You might want to also have a seat.”

As Anna sat on a barrel, Abe continued to stand, and was occasionally glancing back and forth between Ben and the stranger that had been hiding in the cellar. “Like I told you earlier, Major, I'm not a soldier in your army.”

“All right,” he answered in equal neutrality. Gesturing to his counterpart, he said, “What I said was true, Abe. This man here is the commander of those strangely-dressed and armed forces outside. They're the 2nd Legionnaires, and they, along with him and a couple of others that Caleb and I know, are from the future.”

“The future?” Abe asked, incredulous. “That's a load of horseshite if I've ever heard one.”

“If it is, Mr. Woodhull, I'd expect you to be digging through it for the next few years,” Ben's counterpart said, in the same exact intonation, cadence, and _accent_ as he had. Taking a couple of steps forward while removing his helmet to allow all of them a good look at his face and hair, though the green-black-brown paint covering his face made it difficult to distinguish any similarities between the two. He also reached for something that was inside of his clothes and pulled out a chain of sorts with familiar-looking metal plates hooked onto it. Continuing to say in the eerily mirrored tone of his own speech, his counterpart extended his hand forward with the chain towards Abe, saying, “Have a look, Mr. Woodhull.”

He saw Abe gingerly take the chain and and rub his fingers across the raised portions of the small, rounded plates before squinting slightly to read it. “Tallmadge, Benjamin S.? RH-positive. Agnostic. Setauket, NY. Eleven, seven, twenty-one-fifty-two...” There was a pause before Abe whispered again, “Twenty-one-fifty-two...”

As Tallmadge gently took the plates back, Ben saw Abe wobble ever so slightly, but Caleb was immediately there to catch their friend, lowering him down to the barrel next to Anna. While Abe was still trying to shake himself out of his shock, Ben noticed that Anna was staring quite wide-eyed at both of them before frowning. “Just what were you doing in my cellar, Mr. Tallmadge?”

“Hoping to make use of the wines and ales you have stored here, Mrs. Strong,” his counterpart politely replied, not even deigning to correct Anna on the honorific that she had tacked onto his name. “I originally wanted to make molotov cocktails to use as grenades against the redcoats--”

“Pardon me, but what?” Abe jumped in.

“Molotov cocktails are a type of grenade – hand-thrown explosive – that is easily made with cloth stuffed into the neck of a bottle full of alcohol and petrol, and lit on fire. You don't have petrol yet, but there's plenty of manure to go around. They're extremely potent in distracting and scattering people when they break and the fire consumes the scattered stuff,” Tallmadge explained.

Caleb's low whistle and grin that looked half-crazed in the light was only tampered with the horrified looks on both Anna and Abe's faces. “We're not burning the town down,” he testily said, hoping to remind his counterpart that though they were in mutual agreement to take and hold Setauket, there were still civilians to account for.

“I didn't think so either,” Tallmadge answered. “But they are still useful as a distraction.”

“And you want my ales for this?” Anna asked.

“Hold on, hold on,” Abe interrupted, standing back up. “This is ridiculous. I already said that Hewlett will not surrender, and Simcoe's going to shoot every last one of you that tries to charge that hill. Reinforcements in the south or no, they've got weapons capable of lighting things on fire from a distance!”

“As do we, Mr. Woodhull,” Tallmadge said, adjusting the strap that was slung over his shoulder to bring the blocky matte-black rifle forward.

“What about my father?” Abe asked, placing a hand over his face for a moment before sliding it back down. “He's in the church.”

“Shite,” Caleb muttered. “Forgot about that.”

“Yeah, so if you want your coup to be successful without a bloodbath happening, I guess today, you're going to take orders from me,” Abe said, turning slightly so that he was face-to-face with Ben. “My father's there in the church, and like you said earlier, Ben, I'm the best man for the job. And like I also said before, they're only shooting at you, not us civilians. I go under the flag of truce, negotiate with Hewlett to withdraw his forces. If that doesn't work, you guys do whatever you need to prepare, and I get my father out. Fair?”

“Well said,” he answered, nodding slightly in deference to Abe's plan, surprised that his counterpart was remaining silent and not jumping in with more aggressive suggestions. “And fair.”

“Might I suggest sending someone with you, Mr. Woodhull?” Tallmadge asked after a moment.

“It's a parlay,” Abe stated. “I can't guarantee anyone else's safety while I'm negotiating.”

“I'm not asking you to. I'm just trying to guarantee your own, after all, we've been shooting to disable, while they have been trying to shoot to kill. With such advance weaponry at their disposal and the indiscriminate bloodlust of Simcoe, you and your father, may get caught in a potential crossfire.”

Abe threw his hands up in the air for a moment in pure frustration as he stepped away from them, staring at the cellar door. After a few moments, he turned back and said, “Send whomever you want. But if the negotiations don't work, make sure you tell your man to kill Simcoe, yeah?”

“Simcoe can't die.”

“Why?” Abe exploded, “Why the hell not?!”

“Because in my time, he has two of my agents. Abigail Woodhull, your descendant Mr. Woodhull, and Andrew Strong, your descendant Mrs. Strong. They were captured while trying to exfiltrate after an intelligence gathering mission in New York City. I don't know if they were affected by this transport in time, but I intend to rescue them when I get back to my era. Unfortunately, the Simcoe of my era, who is a descendant of this Simcoe here also holds key information I need for my General Washington to defeat our enemy. If he dies now, we lose the war.”

“Christ on a pony,” Caleb muttered into the silence that fell across the group, though Ben immediately knew that the expression was not an affront to the Lord and had been merely picked up by the virtue of his friend spending a little too much time with the three women and their vocabulary. “Who the hell can we kill then?”

“What--?” Abe began, looking baffled.

“A rough summary, Mr. Woodhull and Mrs. Strong,” Tallmadge stated. “Four hundred years into the future, we're fighting for our freedom again, from the entity we call Britannia. They invaded our shores almost twenty-three years prior and we just started rebel against them. My spy ring, a mirror of the one you and others are currently participating in, has been shuttling information to what's left of the leaders of the rebellion, but among those most prominent is my General Washington.

“But, unlike the now or what is supposed to have happened according to historical texts, we're losing our rebellion. They burned and sacked several coastal cities and destroyed our fleets. They even burned our capitol city...again. We don't have a Navy anymore, much less an Air Force, Coast Guard, or Marines. The Army is all that is left, and right now, we're scattered. They burned Long Island and razed most of coastal Connecticut, Virginia, the Carolinas, and even Georgia. I was ordered to hold Morristown to allow those in Trenton, Princeton, and other surviving townships in New Jersey to evacuate to the hills of Pennsylvania.

“I do truly wish that you can kill whomever you want in this war, but if you do, then the chain of consequences is something that may make the future even worse. The fact that a Gatling gun of all things showed up here tells me that whatever or whomever brought the future into this era may have also tried to merge other eras together. Whatever happens here or perhaps in some distant past on the other side of the world will cause a ripple. We must ensure that those who have historically survived still survive, no matter what.”

“Well, if I can't shoot to kill, at least I'll make it hurt,” Caleb quipped. “Maybe if I punch him in the kidneys, perhaps this descendant of Simcoe you said, will feel it.”

Ben could not help but despair slightly, even with the attempted humor Caleb had tried to inject into the conversation. While he had asked and recieved little about the actual conditions of the future rebellion, just the places where Brewster had pointed out on her map as fortifications on the rebel's sides had him assuming that the future rebellion was winning their freedom. Now, with the stark statement from his counterpart, it seemed his assumptions were gravely incorrect. He glanced over to his agents, noticing that they were wearing similar frowns on their faces before Abe said, “Fine, fine. I just want that bastard out of here.”

“All right,” Caleb exclaimed, clapping Abe on the back as he turned their friend towards the entrance of the cellar. “Let's get this parlay going.”

“Mr. Tallmadge,” Anna said as she followed behind the two, pausing at the foot of the stairs and turned slightly. “Or should I address you by your rank, sir?”

“It's Major, Mrs. Strong.”

“Major Tallmadge,” she said, though Ben could not detect any hint of confusion or shock – it seemed that she had gracefully accepted the strange facts laid before her with little protest. “You may use the casks as you see fit, though I warn you, whatever you use will be placed on your tab.”

“Oh,” his counterpart said, smiling slightly. “I guess that tab's going be pretty expensive then. Hope you don't charge interest, Mrs. Strong. It might take me four hundred years to pay it back.”

“Leave it on the counter top then,” she said and swept out.

Ben took the opportunity to step in a little closer to his counterpart before they left the cellar. In a low, almost whispered tone, he asked, “What of that traitor in your ranks?”

“He'll be dealt with after this,” his counterpart answered, “if he hasn't already fled. Nat had already trained a few of my men and women in the basics of counter-intelligence and espionage. They know how to detect and detain turncoats, spies, and traitors.”

“Nat?”

“Natalie Sackett. I heard from Sammie that she and Carrie were the first ones you encountered.”

“Yes,” he answered, “it was a most...enlightening experience, to say the least.”

“Well, you survived with two Brewsters nagging you,” his counterpart said, clapping him on the back. “I don't know if I would have, sir.”

“I don't nag...sir,” Brewster's voice floated down towards them as they went up the stairs and back out into the bright sunlight of a briskly cool spring day in Setauket. Despite what was about to happen and his worries as to where his father and the other missing Whigs, he couldn't help but smile slightly as he saw Brewster glance over towards her commander. Her jaw immediately fell open before she managed to snap out of her fugue and say, “Sir, your hair's out of regulation.”

“Good to see you too, Carrie,” Tallmadge said, before engulfing the lieutenant in a backslapping hug. They separated and as his counterpart put his helmet back on, he said, “I need you to go with Woodhull and protect him while we try to negotiate terms of surrender.” Brewster attempted to remove the blocky rifle she wore, but Ben saw his counterpart place a hand out, saying, “You might need that if things go south. They already know that we're armed with the rifles. Also, you're not to kill Simcoe.”

“Fuck, why not?”

“He has Abby and Andrew. I got the notice two days before you and Nat were supposed to return. They were in New York City on my orders to abduct him and the databases in his facility. I'm sorry, Carrie.” Ben saw him glance over at Samantha who was standing on the other side of the cellar entrance. “Sorry, Sammie. I was about to infiltrate New York myself when we got transported to Montauk.”

“We'll get them back,” she stated with absolute confidence in her tone. “We leave no person behind.”

“Acknowledge on no kill order for Simcoe, sir,” Brewster spoke up. “May I punch him in the kidneys though?”

“That's my girl!”

This time, there was no holding back to sigh of exasperation as he shook his head slightly towards Caleb's antics and words. He, Abe, and Anna were standing slightly away, but they had definitely heard the words being exchanged. There was a most curious of looks on Anna's face as he noticed her realizing that there were women serving in the army. It was one thing to mention it and not think about it, but it was a completely different experience to actually see it. Samantha and Brewster's disguises were quite well done, but it was only because they spoke to their commander in their normal voices that gave them away.

“Wait, you're having a woman accompanying me?” Abe's concerned voice broke into the conversation.

“That's Lieutenant, twig,” Brewster shot back. “Not woman, not lady, and certainly not a fucking weepy damsel in distress who can't save her self and woe-be-tide--”

“Lieutenant!” he heard his counterpart sternly say before he could get a word out.

“Sorry,” he heard Brewster say after a moment, but muttered nearly under her breath, “Not fucking sorry.”

“That aside,” his counterpart began, “yes, I am sending my Lieutenant Brewster with you, Mr. Woodhull. She's the only one dressed in normal Continental army clothes. I would love to send Sammie with you, but she's dressed in cavalry colors and I need her for another task. Plus, they're more liable to shoot cavalry colors during the approach than they are, for the Lieutenant here.”

Abe stared at both him and his counterpart for a few long moments before throwing his hands up in the air, saying, “Fine! Know that what I said earlier is still true.”

“Understood,” Tallmadge said before turning to Ben and stated, “See you in the woods, sir.”

Without another word, he was off, with Samantha, having given Ben a nod of acknowledgment trailing after him. Ben did not stop him, for as curious as he was about the task that his counterpart was to assign Samantha, she was not a soldier under his command and thus he did not ask. He had only 'borrowed' her skills until she was reunited with her people. He took a deep breath before noisily exhaling and gestured for Caleb and the others to get themselves ready. He could only hope that negotiations would not sour and that faced with such an overwhelming amount of force, Hewlett, for all of his stubborn ways that Abe had described, would see the folly in drawing out such a conflict. Perhaps no more shots needed to be fired.

* * *

Frightened wasn't exactly the word that he would use to describe his state of mind. Rather, it felt more like he was walking through a nightmarish dream that wouldn't end. Of course, a part of him had already tried to rouse himself, but as he place foot after foot forward, he found himself actually glad that there was someone else walking the path to peace or bloodshed with him.

Smoke from the still-burning carts and the ridge of trees that were still aflame billowed towards him, briefly obscuring his vision. As the cool spring breeze blew it away, he could see the thirty men behind various coverings, along with the cannon crews, and someone manning a very strange-looking weapon that seemed to be part cart and part gun with multiple barrels. They were all warily eyeing not only him, but also his companion. They had their weapons pointed at him and were following his every move, but it was as Ensign Baker had told Ben and the others earlier – Hewlett was a reasonable man to respect the flag of truce.

At the entrance, he breathed out a sigh of relief at having made it without being shot on either side. The silent sentinel beside him remained still, but raised her hands to surrender the blocky rifle before they allowed both him and her to pass. He took one last glance back towards the bottom of the hill, where, on the treeline, he could see the armies creeping towards the foot of the hill.

Inside, Hewlett was sitting at his desk, while Simcoe was pacing up and down the length of the church. There was another unfamiliar man calmly sitting amongst the pews which had been shoved against the walls, though he clearly saw the same type of blocky rifle being held in his hands. Abe spotted his father sitting near Hewlett's desk and let another silent sigh of relief flow through him. He could never forgive himself if his father died because of this debacle.

“They want to negotiate, Major,” he stated, placing the flag of truce down and leaned it against the immediate wall to his left.

“And who is this?” Hewlett said as Simcoe stopped his pacing and came to stand next to him.

“An escort,” he answered. “Someone within the reinforcements that assisted Tallmadge. It was their idea, not mine. I think they wanted to ensure that I wasn't shot by those blue bolts while trying to bring you terms of negotiations.”

He saw Hewlett eye his companion for a moment before glancing back at what he was currently jotting down on parchment. Simcoe had taken a longer look, and Abe thought he saw a shrewd look pass through the captain's expression before they settled into a look that was a cross between bored and terrifyingly creepy.

“Ah, so they're scared of our new weaponry and soldiers?” Simcoe asked.

“No,” he answered. “They ask you to surrender, sir, even though I told them that you would never bow.”

“Surrender?!” Simcoe scoffed before Hewlett could get a word out. “What are their numbers?”

“More than ninety, in the front of the church, sir,” he said, gesturing towards the entrance. “In the back, they have at least forty to sixty more. And they also took over that brig in the harbor.”

“What?!” Hewlett growled, rising up from his seat while snatching his spyglass from the desk. He stomped over towards the back entrance to the church and yanked the door open before raising his spyglass up and peered into it. Abe followed, but hung towards the back, while Simcoe shoved past him and stood next to Hewlett. The other man in the church also rose and approached the front entrance to peer out of it.

“Dammit!” he heard Hewlett say as the spyglass was passed to Simcoe.

“So you mean to surrender?” Simcoe asked after a moment of observation.

“No,” Hewlett answered, snatching his spyglass back and closed the back entrance's door.

“Good, because I'd hate for you to be the first commander to allow the Patriots to get a foothold on Long Island.”

Abe deliberately coughed to catch the two's attention, just as he heard his father cough to clear his chest. Conceding his words to his father, he heard him say, “Abraham, what are their terms?”

“Tell them where the rest of the Patriot families are and leave Setauket. They'll also allow all Loyalists to leave with the troops,” he stated. “Also, the force that backs Tallmadge's army has also taken over most of eastern Long Island. They already have a foothold on Long Island.” It had not been told to him about the situation, but considering that he was sure this other Ben Tallmadge had a rather enormous amount of people with him, it wasn't a stretch to say that perhaps at least the eastern half of Long Island was not in British hands anymore.

“What do you mean the rest of the Patriot families?” Hewlett asked. “They were all down in the cellar!”

“Sir,” he began, managing to keep the alarm from his voice. If Hewlett didn't know what happened to the other four men, then what had happened between yesterday and this morning? “They only found three. Reverend Tallmadge along with Lucas Brewster, and two others are missing.”

“They were moved in the middle of the night to a more secure location,” the mysterious redcoat captain spoke up as he approached.

“What?” Hewlett nearly roared.

“I apologize, Major--”

“Do you know what the chain of command is, _Captain_ ,” Hewlett interrupted him. “I am in charge of this garrison and I give the orders – and I gave no such order to transfer prisoners. Where are they?!”

“That I cannot say, sir,” the captain answered, seemingly unruffled by Hewlett's outburst. “I only gave strict orders for my people to take them somewhere safer. It's also why reinforcements were sent to you, Major. History said that Major Tallmadge attempted to invade Setauket around this time and only managed to rescue those loyal to the Patriot cause, failing to take the town. We were specifically sent here to reinforce that loss.”

“You used, us,” Hewlett growled, his hands curling around the spyglass until his knuckles were white.

“On the contrary, I find it quite refreshing to have this new perspective,” Simcoe interrupted. “Forcing us to surrender while they have the numbers but not the will to attack? I can't decide whether they think themselves as cowards or us fools.”

“Cowards,” the captain supplied. “They mean to preserve history while we mean to change it.”

“Major...” Abe began, trying to reason with the commander of the garrison. It was not going as planned, and with this mysterious captain saying words that should not have made sense but did, he feared for the town. “Please don't force his hand. He will retaliate in kind, and I am very concerned for my family and the other Loyalist captives down there.”

“Your concern is none of our concern,” Simcoe dismissively said.

“Enough! You make it so that I cannot hear myself think!”

“I would suggest surrender, Major,” the captain suddenly stated. “After all, there will be more opportunities in the future to be had, and I can assure you that British High Command will not look down on the loss of Setauket as a failure.”

“What?!” Simcoe exploded. “To yield is to show weakness!”

“Captain Simcoe! You will keep your opinion to when it is required! I will yield nothing that I do not wish to yield! I'm trying to save the people and the town!”

“Then kill the enemy!” Simcoe screamed. “Force them to charge the barricade! Give them cannon, musket, and all the advance weaponry that we have full-on!”

Abe felt himself being shoved to the side and stumbled into the pews, falling backwards into one as he saw Simcoe advanced on his father. That vision was briefly obscured by his companion charging forward to stop Simcoe. However, before the crazed man could haul his father up from the pew, the mysterious captain stepped in and immediately grabbed Simcoe by an arm and twisted it in an upwards fashion. Simcoe yelled in pain, sinking into his knees as both the captain and Abe's companion fell on top of the man's back to prevent him from getting back up.

Between the captain's incoherent yells, Hewlett had taken a piece of cloth and stuffed it into Simcoe's mouth before tying his belt around his face to muffle the screams. The mysterious captain had also removed his belt to wrap it around Simcoe's hands. After a few more moments of trying to subdue the man, the three of them finally lifted themselves off of the crazed captain, who was squirming and still yelling, albeit in a very muffled voice.

Abe approached his father, who looked quite startled, and gently placed his arms around his shoulders. He received an absent pat on his hand before looking up at Hewlett. “What's your answer, Major?” he asked.

“Give me the flag, Abraham,” Hewlett said. “We yield this town to the Continentals in exchange for safe passage for not only the Loyalists but also our troops.” Abe released his protective hold on his father and hurried to take the flag up. Giving it to Hewlett, he caught the garrison commander giving him a long look before saying, “You, your father, and your family will be accompanying us, correct?”

“Yes,” he stated, nodding to show his affirmation, though inside, he could feel his stomach turning as a plan suddenly formed in his mind, “Yes of course. We have contacts in New York who may be able to help us rebuild.”

“Ah, good,” Hewlett said, but did not expand on his statement and took the flag. Gesturing for the mysterious captain to haul Simcoe up to his feet and follow him out of the church, Abe stayed behind to help his father up. His companion took to the other side of his father and together, with arms draped around his shoulder, they slowly made their way out.

Blinking back the sudden tears that sprang into his eyes as the bright light of an afternoon spring sun greeted him, he saw that the men stationed on either side of the church had departed and were falling in formation behind Hewlett and the mysterious captain who seemed to be prodding Simcoe along. He paused as he saw his companion also pause to kneel down to pick up the blocky rifle that had been left on the ground.

Continentals and British forces met on the center slope of the hill, with Hewlett carrying the flag of truce. “Let me watch this first, father?” he asked as they slowly approached the back ranks of the redcoats, hoping that he could listen in while the negotiations were conducted.

“Not for long, Woodhull,” his companion said in a low tone. If he didn't already know that his companion was a woman, he would have thought of her as a man based solely on the way she was dressed and spoke. “Your father is bleeding again and will have to be patched up.”

“Can he stay for a few weeks before being allowed to join Mary, Thomas, and I in New York?”

“Abe, I can make the journey,” he heard his father say.

“Don't,” he protested. “I know Tallmadge, I can ask him to allow you to stay for a while and recover your strength. He's just as honorable as Major Hewlett. He doesn't want people in this town to be further hurt.”

“I'll ask, Woodhull,” his companion said. “After this thing is concluded.”

“Thank you,” he gratefully said.

* * *

“Good form, Major Tallmadge.”

Accepting the conceding handshake of defeat from what he could only presume as Major Hewlett, based solely on the epaulets that were on the fringes of the man's jacket shoulders, he firmly shook his hand before withdrawing. To his side was Caleb, looking quite happy at the fact that Simcoe was trussed up and held in quite a demeaning fashion by another redcoat captain. There was a furious fire in Simcoe's eyes, but as much as he glared at the Continentals, he could do no harm to them.

To his right was his counterpart, who stood a little ways back, with his head tilted down so that the redcoats could barely see who he was. Even under such concealing paint upon his face, his counterpart was taking no chances and held his rifle in a firm but slightly relaxed fashion across his chest.

Behind the three of them was the hundred strong combined army of not only his men, but also of what he learned to be a small 'company' of soldiers grouped under the name of Foxtrot Company. Two other companies, India and Echo were also within the battalion that his counterpart commanded. They were supposed to be three hundred strong in total, but his counterpart had told him that he had left a part of them back in the other towns that had been taken over. Scouts and messengers had been sent to the other side of the church as soon as Hewlett had emerged from the church to tell them men and women on the other side to stand down.

“Major Hewlett,” he said in acknowledgment.

“We hereby surrender Setauket under the predetermined agreements that the messenger, Abraham Woodhull delivered to us.”

“Agreed,” he answered. “Leave now. We will release your men in our custody, but if any of your men are still here come sundown, we will show no quarter or mercy.”

“As you wish,” Hewlett said, nodding slightly. “Also, we do not know the current location of the other four Patriots, but rest assured, Major, I am a fair man and I will personally return them to Setauket if they are found.”

“Thank you,” he managed to stiffly say before Hewlett gestured for his men to fall in and begin the long march to wherever safe haven was for them outside of the town.

As the redcoats marched in precise formation down the hill and towards the thinning treeline to the west, a great and enormous cheer went up within the victorious armies. He heard Caleb cheer along with the men, slapping him on the back and despite himself, he could not help but feel melancholic. They had won, had taken and would hold Setauket, but four Patriots were still missing. He had heard honesty in Hewlett's tone when the man had stated that they did not know where the four were, and it worried him greatly.

“We'll get your father back, Ben,” he heard his counterpart quietly state over the din.

“I hope so,” he answered.

* * *

_New York City, a few days later..._

 

The sound of something leathery and cloth-like scraping across the unpolished, but strangely smooth stone floor in the halls caused Major John Andre to look up from the fascinating illuminated panel on the wall that responded to his touch on inquiries and the like. He could hear muffled noise coming down the hall, but the scraping sound continued and it was only because of the future-Simcoe who said, “Ah, the Director's back,” that he realized that there was a prisoner of some sort being dragged down the halls.

At once, a unrecognizable man wearing the redcoat of British forces and epaulets that designated him as a captain hauled a bound and gagged Captain Simcoe. With his white powdered wig askew and fury in his eyes, John took a step back while Simcoe was unceremoniously thrown to the center of the room. The future-Simcoe merely sniffed before approaching his counterpart. As soon as Simcoe saw his future counterpart, he ceased all attempts to get free and stilled.

“Well, Setauket is lost to us,” the captain said, before John tilted his head slightly in curiosity as he saw the man seemingly dig into his neck and rip off a full headed mask complete with a wig attached to it.

“Director,” he breathed, as he saw his counterpart revealed while a small, clear strip was torn from the man's actual neck.

“Setauket, lost?” Simcoe stated. “How? I thought you and those other men were enough to hold the garrison?”

“Yes,” the Director nodded, his voice no longer pitched differently. “It was enough, only with the intelligence we had gathered from historical texts. Tallmadge is here.”

“Of course he is,” Simcoe answered. “History cited him to have attempted to take Setauket but failed.”

“No, I meant the other one,” the Director stated. “The other Tallmadge. The one who graduated at the top of his class at Westpoint in 2173.”

Simcoe was silent for a few long moments, and despite John wanting to ask, he understood the implications of what had just been said. Apparently, even in the future, Benjamin Tallmadge was still a threat. “I see,” was all the man said.

“His battalion's spread out from most likely Montauk all the way past Sag Harbor and now into Setauket,” the Director stated. “He has the numbers to hold that much of Long Island, but we need to send out agents to watch for his counter-intelligence agents, Natalie Sackett and Samantha Tallmadge. If those two have also been transported here by the machine, then they will prove a clear and present danger for our work.”

“Do you have sketches of them?” John spoke up, knowing that he too would have to take action to support the efforts of Britannia.

“I do,” the Director answered. “How goes the movement and integration of our troops?”

“Quite well, sir. They have readily accepted the advance weaponry that we've provided and a new shipment of Gatling guns from the south and Midwest's plunge into the 1860's has proved to be fortuitous,” Simcoe answered. “If I may ask, what are your plans for my ancestor here?”

“All in due, time, Mr. Simcoe,” the Director said, kneeling down to pull the white powdered wig off of the captain's hair. Looking back up, John noticed that his counterpart's gaze was fixed directly at him as he said, “We lost Setauket, but all is not lost for our cause. You can call off your man on monitoring Abraham Woodhull and Anna Strong, Major Andre. Both of them have arrived under the guise of extracting information for their Culper Spy Ring and are starting to settle quite nicely in New York City.”

“Shall I invite them to another soiree?” he asked.

“Please do, and when they accept, begin to work on trying to turn them, for I would love to see what Washington will do without his precious Agent 722, Mr. Culper.”

 

~*~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 19 Oct 2015: And that's it for Season 1 of TURN. Season 2 will be done in the same fashion, albeit with all the twists that has happened in this crazy interpretation of Season 1, though I've only watched Season 2 once. I do not have readily available access to Season 2 and thus will be relying on the beta-reader to grab transcripts for me (beta has a more reliable access to Season 2). However, rather than start Season 2 off in Autumn 1777 as per the show, we'll be continuing onwards from Spring 1777. The Battle of Brandywine and all of its shenanigans calls!
> 
> Special thanks to CelticArche for the hilarious discussion about punching Simcoe in the kidneys – hope you didn't mind me using that in the story, CelticArche. Caleb would love to get his boots shined with Simcoe's kidneys.


	5. I Want Brandy and Wine With My Philly Cheesesteak

**Chapter 5: I Want Brandy and Wine With My Philly Cheesesteak**

 

_South of Ridgefield, Connecticut..._

 

“Sir, letters for you,” the corporal stated as Ben looked up from where he was sitting behind the creaky and tiny desk in his tent. Scouting reports were stacked almost as high as his head on either side of the desk, giving him little space to write, much less place a quill and inkwell on the desk. It was extremely cramped in the tent, especially since his cot took up the majority of the space.

“Thank you, corporal,” he said, taking the two letters that had been bound together in twine and glanced at the first folded one. His eyes widened slightly as he saw the numerical digits written across the parchment under his name, in a handwriting that was quite familiar to him. Unknotting the twine that held the package together, he glanced at the other letter – another familiar handwriting – and placed that to the side. It was the first one that interested him the most.

Breaking the wax seal on the back of the letter, he unfolded it and nudged the precariously perched candlestick on his desk a little more towards him as he leaned the letter towards the flame. He had been waiting for a message from Washington ever since he had sent a rider out to Morristown with an action report on Setauket. It was a short letter – shorter than he expected, but he frowned slightly as all he read were numerical digits that were sometimes interspersed with phrases that were not ciphered. Placing the letter back down, he picked up his quill and mentally sighed. He would have to patiently decode the letter before he could read it. He had expected too much of himself to think that Washington would not encode a missive to him when he had done the same to his action report.

It was fortunate that though he had left his copy of the codebook back at Morristown, he had memorized most of it and thus began to work on decrypting the letter. With the noise outside in the encampment, it felt almost as if he were back at Morristown, simply decrypting a letter for exercise purposes.

“Whatcha doing?”

The playful, sing-song tone, caused an unbidden smile to appear on his face as he looked up to see the familiar outline of Samantha in the blues of the cavalry standing at the entrance to his tent. “Returning so soon?” he asked, gesturing for her to enter and take a seat on the cot.

“I'm just the advance scout sent to tell you that my cousin will be arriving later tonight,” she answered, removing her helmet and swung it by the strap against the edge of the cot.

“By real horse or these fabled 'robotic' horses that you've kept describing?” he asked.

It had been several days since their victory at Setauket, and though he had wanted to stay in the town, he still had his duties to draw British attention away from Washington's southern reinforcements. Thus as soon as he and his men had ensured that there were no redcoats left in the town, he and most of the 2nd Continentals had crossed the Sound once again and landed just outside of Stratford. They had stayed there for a day to recover before continuing their curving march up towards Wethersfield before cutting across to Danbury.

It had been at Danbury that he had received word that General Arnold had been ordered to move northward towards Saratoga in New York. He had missed the rendezvous with the impressive general by a day. Orders from Washington had also been left for him as soon as he had reached Ridgefield – they were to temporarily hold garrison at Ridgefield with the commander who had been left behind.

He and the Ridgefield garrison commander had clashed as soon as they met, and though swords had not been drawn, he decided to withdraw his men from the town and stationed them just south of the town, hence their location in the woods. It was also private enough that he was able to meet up with small elements of his counterpart's forces who occasionally joined them in patrols around the western part of Connecticut and eastern parts of New York.

Caleb had been left at Setauket, along with a couple of trusted men who did not seem to be as nervous as the others in the face of such strangeness. Selah had also stayed behind, and Ben didn't fault him for quitting the army. During the Loyalists' departure, Anna had abruptly taken a horse and rode to join the caravan. Selah had tried to chase after her, but redcoats had immediately surrounded Anna, protecting her and leaving Selah to despair. Just before the Continentals had departed Setauket, Ben had been taken aside by Selah and had patiently listened to the man rant, but he still did not divulge Anna's status as a spy to him. He knew just how callous he was being, but it was better this way, for both of them. Anna, strong-willed as she always was, would be able to help Abe within New York City, for he knew just how much danger he was putting them into. They now had agents in the heart of British command and it had been relayed to Washington.

His counterpart, along with Samantha and Brewster had also stayed behind, with his counterpart's forces providing the main garrison. Reports that he received told of the fact that his counterpart's troops did not quarter themselves in any of Setauket's buildings and instead, had encamped themselves around the woods of the town. Caleb had reported that the residents who stayed were quite baffled, for they had clearly expected to be under the yoke of Patriot forces and did not expect to be nearly free of their influence.

The town was slowly recovering, and even though there were no word on where the four missing Patriots of Setauket were, residents had started restoring the church and the schoolhouse. He had also heard word that his counterpart had ordered his people to ensure that none of the Loyalists' belongings or property were to be destroyed or stolen. All in all, the behaviors of the future soldiers in this war were quite civil, and he thought that perhaps the rules of war still applied.

“Real horse, Ben,” Samantha answered. “My ass hurts from sitting on one all day, but I did relay your wish to see the robotic horses. Sadly, my cousin is a bit of a nob when it comes to stuff like that.”

He raised an eyebrow at her usage of 'nob' – she certainly was picking up on various phrases that were strictly of this era and not of hers. That or she was spending a little too much time with Caleb and his colorful vocabulary. He was certain that his counterpart did not need more foul-mouthed soldiers or civilians within his camp. The two Brewsters were already enough to satisfy a lifetime of cursing and vulgar language. “I suppose that it is better,” he said. “Best not to frighten the men at camp or any of the Ridgefield garrison, should they join us on patrol.”

“Oh, and the Brewsters-two are not coming this time,” Samantha added. “But they send their regards, and a bottle of Madeira. It's within my horse's pack.”

“No doubt already half-drunk?” he asked.

“Nah, I managed to keep it away from them after they told me to give it to you.”

“And I thank you for that,” he said.

“So whatcha working on?” she asked, getting up and took the few steps to close the distance to peer over the stacks of reports on his desk.

“Missive from General Washington,” he answered. “And something from Mr. Sackett.”

“Ooooh,” she gushed before pointing to the still-folded and unopened letter from Sackett that he had placed to the side. “Is that also encrypted?”

“I suppose so,” he said, taking the letter and breaking open the seal. Unfolding the letter, it was also a single page, but as he stared at the random jumble of numbers and letters that seemed to be written together with little breaks between what he could assume to be words, he realized that this was a heavily encrypted letter. The man had also encrypted his signature and a post-script message. He couldn't help but sigh as he placed the letter down.

“It must be a hereditary trait,” he heard Samantha sympathetically say as he looked up to see her gesturing to the letter. “Natalie was always a bit paranoid. She sometimes double-encrypted personal messages to me while we were working in the Ministry of Intelligence.”

“Or Mr. Sackett just seems to find it amusing to subject me to a night's loss of sleep,” he muttered. He was sure that the letter had been encrypted using either of the Indian methodologies that they had found Major Andre's codebook encrypted with, plus something else under the first layer of encryption. The problem was to choose one of the methodologies to start with and hope that it was the correct one and subject that to either Latin, Hebrew, or Greek. Otherwise, he would have to start at the beginning again with the other methodology with the same three languages.

“Tell you what, I'll decrypt it for you,” she suddenly said. “I'm bored and there's so many games of checkers, sorry draughts, that I can play before it gets annoying for either me or the men out there.”

“I appreciate the offer, Samantha,” he said, knowing that though he trusted her, it was still a letter addressed to him, “but I heard that you know chess. Perhaps you could teach them how to play it?” It had been on one of the first patrols that he and his counterpart had taken that while on break to water and rest the horses, his counterpart had taught him an intensely strategic game played on the same type of board that one would play draughts. He had heard of the game called 'chess', but up until recently, had never seen it played or played it himself. It proved to be a refreshing course in tactics and strategy, playing against his counterpart, since he kept defeating Caleb in draughts.

“Yeah, though I don't play it as much as my cousin. I wouldn't be a decent or patient teacher,” she said. “Please let me decrypt the letter?”

The expression, tone, and just the way she stood before him suddenly reminded him of his brother. An echoed pang of grief briefly filled him before subsiding, and though he knew that it was not deliberate on her part, her mannerisms at the moment was a little too much for him to bear. He swallowed the lump in his throat before saying, “You remind me of Samuel and the times when we were children. He always wanted to jump right in and help me with my studies. I could never say no to him, so in deference to him and the memories I have of him, yes, you can decrypt the letter.”

“Yay!” she chirped, gingerly taking the letter before leaning in a little further and quickly brushed her lips against his cheek in a light kiss. He didn't get a chance to stop her from her action before she pulled away and went back to the cot, saying, “You're the best surrogate brother ever!”

“Do you need a quill and inkwell?” he asked after a moment, realizing that he should not read into the gesture of affection more than what it was. There certainly was a sibling-like relationship that he had seen when Samantha and her Benjamin Tallmadge interacted, even though they were cousins. To him, it seemed that she had unconsciously adopted him as a brother of sorts, even when his counterpart was not around and he found himself quite touched by that. Still, if she had really been a sister of his, he would have already sent her away to safety, perhaps Boston, but she was not, and thus, he did not interfere or provide any opinion to his counterpart on her being within the army.

It was the same for the other two women – they were quite competent in carrying out their duties, and it was definitely not his place to dictate what his counterpart should or should not do. He understood that four hundred years evolved the way people thought about things, and thus refrained from unwanted vocalization of judgment upon the future people. That said, he could not always stop his men or others, especially those ranked higher than he was, from them expressing rather uncouth opinions. They were, after all, fighting for their freedom and their right to express their opinions without governance, no matter how wrong or right it was.

“Nah,” she replied in a blasé manner. “I remembered to bring my own this time. Carrie's still breaking her quills though. I think it's three a day now.”

Nodding as the corner of his lips tugged a little more upwards, he returned to decoding Washington's letter.

~~~

“Finished!”

“Already?” he asked, looking up from writing his reply to Washington's missive, detailing what had been happening during patrols around the area and updates on the garrison at Setauket and eastern Long Island.

Washington's letter had been very brief and had contained stern words with regards to the impulsive action taken at Setauket. There was no mention of Ben's counterpart or of the weapons used during the brief skirmish, and though he knew that he shouldn't be disappointed by the admonishment and the lack of acknowledgment for participants, he felt a ghost of it within him. However, the final sentence of the letter had offered a simple recognition on the receipt of news of agents permanently embedded in New York City. That had slightly raised his spirits.

“Yeah, it was pretty easy to figure out which method Mr. Sackett used after seeing the patterns, but then again, I studied various Slavic languages as a part of my course while at Yale. Didn't feel like studying Latin, Greek, or Hebrew. When you deal with encryption on a higher level that requires a pseudo-AI computer to initially decrypt messages, you start noticing oddities and potential patterns.”

“Pseudo-AI computers?” he asked, curious.

“Ah, yeah,” she sheepishly said. “Machines... advanced contraptions that help us with our work...erm, nevermind, its a little too complex to describe.”

He nodded, but did not press her further. Perhaps it was more for his own good that he not ask too many questions about the future, even if it was clear that Britannia forces were present and helping British forces. Whatever history that was to happen here, it was already changing, and his primary concern was to ensure that Washington had the necessary intelligence reports so that they could win their freedom from Britannia. What happened in the future after victory would be thought about later.

“It's quite an interesting letter,” she said as she stood up and handed him the parchment. He took it and held it against the candles that had been lit around the tent to give them more light. The sun had already set and the refreshing coolness of an early spring night was starting to settle in.

_[Tallmadge: I saw the report that you sent Washington. I must say that I am quite impressed, even if he is not with the action taken. However, the fact that disguised Britannian forces are among British troops is concerning. There may be Britannian spies or dare I say it, this 'Director Andre' of Natalie's acquaintance somewhere in the region. While it may not be true, I suspect that we may have to reinvent the codebook now that Mr. Culper and your signal agent are in New York. I will prepare a few examples for when you return, but I leave the majority of the codebook and encryption methodologies up to you. In the mean time, I will try to find out how Britannian spies operate and how they are different from their British counterparts. Your adviser in brotherhood, Nathaniel Sackett. PS: you have my permission to write her.]_

Placing the goblet of ale that he had been sipping while reading the letter, he clenched his jaw for a moment as he considered Sackett's words. The thought of perhaps even more wily and dangerous sorts of Britannian forces – not that the thirty men at Setauket armed with advanced weaponry had been dangerous enough – had been lingering in the back of his mind since Setauket, but to visibly see it printed before him made him worried. He knew that Sackett was a cautious man and would never suggest anything that was frivolous, even when debriefing Washington on decrypted reports and the like. Yes the man had quite odd quirks, but he supposed that it had been developed from a lifetime of practicing a 'tradecraft' that was not quite a respected part of a gentleman's repertoire.

“So?” Samantha broke into his thoughts. “You going to write her?”

“What-pardon, who?” he questioned, looking up from the letter to see that she had a silly smile on her face.

“Come on, Ben, don't be daft,” she said as he gave her a puzzled look. “It's in the post-script. He's given you permission!”

Rereading the post-script message, his frown became a little deeper as he realized what exactly it implied. A year-and-a-half ago, had this sort of 'permission' been granted to him, he would have gladly and quite happily taken quill and parchment and written tender soliloquies, sonnets, poems, anything and everything to win over the heart of a woman he was courting. Since hearing about the death of his friend in college, Nathan Hale, and enlisting into the Continental Army, not to mention the responsibilities that he had been subsequently given with his advancement in rank, all thoughts about a much more calmer and carefree life had been put aside. That had included serious thoughts about women.

That did not mean he enjoyed hearing Caleb brag about the beauty and most generous offerings gracing tavern wenches – their many wonderful assets had certainly been pleasing to the eye. He just never considered them someone whom was serious enough to win their hand – and he knew that Caleb knew his promise to himself. He held to his father's teachings, to his own beliefs that the only woman he would take to bed would be the one who accepted his hand in marriage.

Of course that had not meant he tried to court ladies while in college – it had been great fun and between the tomfoolery that he and Nathan had gotten into, none of the courting attempts had been serious enough for him to ask the lady's father for proper permission. In fact, when he had graduated and started his employment in Wethersfield, letters from female acquaintances that he had met while in college (though in hindsight, he barely remembered his time while in college) and around the various villages surrounding Wethersfield had been delivered to him under secret couriers. All of the letters had most definitely been sent without their fathers' permissions, but he had delighted in sharing a few of the less 'scandalous' ones with Nathan. Of course, without their fathers' permission, he had not replied to them, not wanting to draw ire. He was also quite glad that he had not been in contact with Caleb until they were reunited after enlisting in the army. He knew that his friend would have embarrassed him to no end.

Mentally sighing, he thought Caleb had been fooling around with his words during the disguised departure of the women to their 'relatives' home in Boston. He had seen Sackett clearly laugh at Caleb's teasing of Sackett being protective of Natalie – he too had seen how much of a fatherly shine their resident spy adviser had taken to the young woman. He had taken the teasing in stride, careful to maintain a cordial and respectful distance between himself and Natalie since that she had first taught him about the complex decryption methodologies. Of course he had felt slightly affronted by Caleb's suggestion to get Sackett's permission, but he had honestly thought it was his friend's usual way of teasing him about matters concerning women and of the heart. He had no idea that Sackett had taken it seriously.

“No,” he said, placing the letter back down and picked up his goblet, taking a sip from it. “I don't believe that I will be writing Natalie.”

“What?” she said, looking quite crestfallen. “You have got to be kidding me. Hello! Earth to Ben, were you dropped on your head as a child?!”

“Pardon?” he asked, unsure as to what exactly she had said or was implying. To his ears, it sounded admonishing yet somewhat derogatory, but not entirely directed towards him.

“All right, sit, brother-mine,” she ordered, and surprisingly, Ben found himself obeying her as he placed the goblet back down. “Take a piece of fresh parchment and get your quill ready.”

“Samantha,” he protested, but the way she was glaring at him gave him a sudden feeling of looking at Samuel – they were so alike yet so not, especially when it seemed that she was truly annoyed and angry at him. It was the first time he had seen such an intense look upon her face. “I'm not writing Natalie...” he began, but decided to not continue to protest, owing to her taking the few steps to his desk and tower over him. He obediently set aside his report to Washington and took a fresh piece of parchment and smoothed it out over the desk.

“Not yet, you're not,” she answered. “You'll be telling me some word associations first.” With his hand poised over his quill that was sitting in the inkwell, he looked up and waited for her to speak. “Say whatever comes to your mind when I say the word,” she stated. “War.”

“Freedom.”

“Peace.”

“Lifetime.”

“Tinker.”

“Blacksmith.”

“Soldier.”

“Honor.”

“Spy.”

“Necessary.”

“Future.”

“Futile.” He noticed that she had thinned her lips at his reply and followed it up with, “Samantha, I appreciate your enthusiasm in the matter, but being as well-read as I am, if not more, you know that this is a futile effort. We are two different timelines that will need to eventually untangle if the now and the future are to be saved. I do not want to give her hope when it is something that cannot last.”

As soon as the words left his lips, he knew that he had said wrongly, for her eyes lit up, but he was saved from whatever she was about to say as a rather noisy commotion outside in the camp was heard. “It seems that my counterpart has arrived,” he said, getting up and brushed past Samantha as he heard the murmurs of accents not common to the time period greeting a few of the men in the camp. Stepping outside, he saw that indeed, his assumption was correct – the future Major Tallmadge and a small unit composed of seven cavalrymen total were dismounting themselves from the horses.

Putting aside all notions of what just happened, he strode over to greet those who had arrived – there would be time later to think about matters of the heart. For now, duty called.

~~~

The snort and whicker of Ben's horse, along with the slight shake of its head that continued to bobble up and down while in a light trot, was what startled him out of his thoughts, but far be it that he had not paid attention to what his counterpart had just said. It was the fact that his counterpart's words had dredged up Samantha and his own words from earlier in the night and thus he had fallen silent in contemplation.

“A missive from Mr. Sackett arrived today,” he carefully answered. “It contained his speculation that perhaps elements of Britannia intelligence may have also been sent to this time. While it is much too early to discern whether or not this is true, I do agree with your suggestion and will let General Washington know.”

“Much appreciated, sir,” his counterpart answered. “Considering that my primary duties are to now guard the eastern half of Long Island, and watch the coastal waters of Connecticut and New Jersey for any potential signs of invasion, I will not have much time to govern the actions of my agents. I hope General Washington does agree to it.”

“As do I,” he answered. “Your agents have provided Mr. Sackett and I quite a few valuable lessons in this particular 'tradecraft'. I would be quite pleased to continue working with them.”

“Even with as foul...vulgar... eh, I'm not sure what vernacular you use in this time to describe her swearing...cursing...epithets. Anyways, even with as filthy of a mouth as Carrie has?” Tallmadge jested.

“Well, she does a good job in distracting Caleb so that he's less of an arsehole to me at times,” he said, smiling. “Though there was that one morning where I found them drunk and asleep. Caleb was under the table and she seemed to have just fallen asleep on the table.”

“Well, I guess she drunk him under the table then,” his counterpart said, laughing. “It's an expression that we use – to drink someone under the table is to make a bet with the opposition that he or she will be the last person standing while the other would be passed out after both have drunk the same amount of spirits, thereby winning the bet. The stronger the spirit, the better. It's quite a common way to prove that you're the better of the two, to inflate egos and brag to friends. Drunken debaucheries and alcoholic challenges were quite common in colleges across the States from our time.”

“They certainly are here and now,” he answered, as a fleeting memory floated across his mind of the stern letter he had received from his father with regards to some windows in one of the buildings at Yale that he apparently had broken but did not remember breaking. “Any news of my father or the other missing persons?”

“Unfortunately, I do not have any information. I had a few of my people ask around the towns east of Setauket. No one has seen them, and the British soldiers that we hold hostage have also not been given any indication of knowledge by their commanders in New York. Caleb and Carrie also attempted to skirt as close to New York as possible and tried to find out, but they do not have news either.”

He held back a sigh of frustration as they turned their horses northward along the patrol route. Fourteen cavalrymen in total were traveling along the wooded route. He had expected his counterpart to rest for a couple of hours before beginning the patrol, but surprisingly, he had insisted that they venture out earlier than usual – before the moon rose. It had been a quiet night and in the midst of their patrol, he had been told of current events in Setauket and around the eastern half of Long Island. It was nothing that he had to add in his report to Washington, but it did make him feel homesick. However, he had pushed that feeling aside, understanding that though his counterpart seemed quite glad to guard Setauket, it was not _his_ Setauket.

“We executed the traitor this morning by firing squad,” his counterpart softly stated. “It was done outside of the town, in the woods. His body was also burned so that we do not try to leave a trace of our presence for historical purposes.”

“What was his name?” he asked.

“Private Ethan Wong,” Tallmadge stated monotonously. “He was charged with treason, along with aiding and abetting the enemy, and providing false reports to superior officers for the past month. The court-martial was conducted with myself, Lieutenant Winters, and Lieutenant Brewster sitting in judgment. We found him guilty of all counts and sentenced him to death.”

“Ah,” he acknowledged, but did not offer any sympathy or advice, for he was not entirely sure if it was his place to do so. The last time he had witnessed an execution was just before he thought he was about to be court martialed. While he had understood the reasoning behind the hanging of that particular Continental soldier, it had given him a clear distaste of execution for such trivial things, like stealing food. He knew that discipline was to come from the top and needed to be enforced in the chain of command, but the punishment for that particular soldier had been rather harsh, in his opinion. However, he had dared not to state it to General Scott back then, and certainly had never stated it to Washington. For this particular execution that his counterpart had conducted, it was a traitor's death, and he knew that some fate similar to it awaited him should he ever be caught.

The small patrol unit rode for a while in silence until they encountered a stream. Allowing the horses a brief break, he unseated himself and swung himself off. Absently patting his horse's neck, he double checked the small saddlebags before glancing up allow himself a moments of peace in looking at the nighttime sky. Looking back down, he made his way to his counterpart, who was crouched next to the stream, filling up what looked like a hard flask except much bigger.

“In the first few days that your agents and Lieutenant Brewster were there, Mr. Sackett told us that none of them could eat or drink what we had there. They sustained themselves on whatever rations they had brought with them until they got used to eating and drinking our meals. It made evening meals with Washington quite strange.”

“I'm sure it did,” his counterpart replied, capping the large flask before placing it in a pouch attached to his waist belt. “But, at least all of us have adapted, though that is not exactly what you want to discuss, is it?”

“It's about this 'Director Andre' that Mr. Sackett mentioned in his missive,” he quietly said, unsure if he was supposed to outright ask or go somewhere a little ways down the stream so they could talk in private.

“Ah,” his counterpart said, waving his hand in a way that meant for him to follow. The two of them walked a few steps past where the horses had been left to quench their thirst and where the rest of the men had gathered to talk amongst themselves. “I'm sure that you're aware of who exactly is the current head of British Intelligence in America for your era?”

“Yes, a Major John Andre,” he answered. “Director Andre is his descendant.”

He heard his counterpart suck in a rather noisy breath before saying, “That's not entirely true. Major John Andre was captured and executed during the War of Independence. He had been caught spying for the British and also had papers upon him that named General Benedict Arnold as a traitor to the United States. Andre died without any progeny to bear his lineage.”

“General Arnold is a traitor?” he whispered, horrified. “That's--”

“History, Major,” Tallmadge sharply stated. “History that may never happen. Certain circumstances have not happened yet, and certain ones have already happened, telling us that everything might change or better or for worse. The General Arnold of whom you know now has not betrayed America yet. He may not even in these next few years. What you should be more concerned about is Major Andre and Director Andre.”

“If Director Andre is here,” he stated after a few moments, still unable to completely shake the shock of a brilliant and awe-inspiring general betraying the cause.

“Even if Director Andre isn't present Major Andre is nothing to sniff at, sir. Many of the basic coursework in Military Intelligence that I learned during my time at Westpoint came from his early works in British Intelligence. He was...is a shrewd and dangerous man and I am extremely glad that you have both Natalie and Mr. Sackett as yours and General Washington's advisers.” His counterpart paused for a moment, seemingly collecting his thoughts “It is the same for Director Andre. He is...a clone, per se, of the original John Andre.”

“Clone?”

“Copy, physical copy created by growing and incubating in a laboratory until he reached birth,” his counterpart said. “He was created by the United States government many years prior to their fall and raised within the confines of military discipline, tactical and strategic schooling, along with training in espionage, counter-intelligence, decryption, encryption, analysis, and a whole host of other skills – both mental and physical. His purpose was to be the weapon that our former government needed to stop Britannia from expanding even further. Just before Britannia invaded our shores, he was given a cybernetic brain – a brain that allows him to store, process, and analyze information faster than what we normally can. He betrayed us and opened the doors to invasion. Now he leads the Ministry of Intelligence.”

Ben stared at his counterpart, barely comprehending what had just been described to him, though somewhere in his mind, as he slowly came to terms with what had just been said, he said, “He's of a brilliant mind?”

“Yes,” Tallmadge succinctly stated. “I've kept this mostly to myself for these past few weeks now, but I would not put it past him that he orchestrated or at least had a hand in this entire merging of two eras. If he is here, we have bigger problems than winning this war.”

“Name one,” he said.

“We've tried assassinating him multiple times. He either dies and then mysteriously revives, or he has agents to get to our agents before they can attempt to kill him. This spy 'game'--” his counterpart put up his hands and flexed his index fingers slightly as if calling the word game false “--this 'game' is something he's mastered. He's the reason why we're losing the rebellion in our era. He has spies everywhere. We can't kill him. We tried. We sacrificed seventeen of our best agents, including those who deserved an early retirement.” Tallmadge took a deep breath before nosily sighing, saying, “If Director Andre is here, its not just the Continentals who are in danger. British forces are also in danger.”

“If they accept him into their fold, it is their loss,” he stated. It sounded callous, even to his own ears, but if they gave in and worked with the British forces, then what was the purpose of their fight? What had everyone died for? They could not live under British rule – not anymore. He could not compromise his ideals or his honor.

His counterpart was silent before he saw him give a single nod of his head. He understood that his counterpart thought of it in a different manner, and thinking back on his words, he was struck by a sudden thought. “Those seventeen agents...did you know them? Were they a part of your Culpeper Spy Ring?”

“No. Those seventeen predated the formation of the ring,” Tallmadge answered in a quiet tone. “They were a joint taskforce compromised of Russian and American agents. Russia was and still is our only ally in our war against Britannia. I only truly knew one and distantly knew two of the agents. One of them was Samantha's mother. The other two were Natalie's parents. All three had been in early retirement before volunteering for the mission. I was under orders from what was left of Congress to extract as many sympathetic agents out of MI6's headquarters as possible before the seventeen launched their mission. I only managed to extract Samantha and Natalie with help from Abigail Woodhull and Andrew Strong.”

“I...apologize,” he said after a few moments of uncomfortable silence. “I should not have asked.” He fell silent, unsure if what else to say for it did not seem appropriate to offer sympathy for those who had died in a war and world that he barely knew. It also seemed to him that sympathy was the incorrect sentiment to offer to someone like Tallmadge. He could see the similarities, especially the physical ones, but that was where the similarities ended. Their mentalities and how they thought and reacted to their environment was completely different – they were two distinct personalities faced with the impossible.

“You had every right to, sir. After all, until we solve the problem of disentangling our respective times, we're all in this together, whether or not we want to.”

“Aye, no truer words said.”

~~~

The moon had set by the time the patrol group returned to camp. Another group from Ridgefield had met them halfway on the route, relieving them of the duty for the rest of the night. Come sunrise, yet another patrol group would be sent out from the camp to relieve the Ridgefield group.

As Ben entered his tent, he smiled as he saw that a fresh lone candle had been recently lit and left on the small desk. The mountain of papers that had been organized into neater stacks and he had an idea who had done such a work. He was tired, but with the nighttime dispatch rider about to leave the camp soon, he needed to finish his letter to Washington.

Sitting down in front of the desk, he started to drag the letter to Washington to cover the blank sheet that sat unwritten upon, but paused. There was still some time to finish the letter. Pushing the letter back to its precarious perch upon the reports, he felt the corner of his lips quirk up slightly the more he stared at the blank sheet.

His counterpart's words about the future weighed on him more than he cared to admit. There was despair, hopelessness, and even though he could hear defiance within Tallmadge's tone, there was something else that he heard. Hope. It was the voice of reason, the one thing that kept all men going, and whatever his counterpart hoped for, it drove him to continue to fight.

Ben had his own reasons to continue his fight, his own hopes that he never openly told anyone else. Perhaps it would not work, perhaps it was just a fool's errand, or perhaps these past few trying months had finally taken a toll on him that he was addled – he didn't know. What he did know was that however fleeting, however futile it was, perhaps some modicum of comfort could be derived from this exchange in letters – after all, Sackett wrote to his wife often and even Washington wrote to his too.

He knew that whatever developed between them was either just imagination or would most likely never work, given the circumstances. But it was as she had stated to him before, it was 'an exercise in futility', and who was he to deny it when he had already inadvertently admitted the truth? Taking the quill, he dabbed it so that it wasn't overflowing with ink before scratching a few words upon the blank sheet:

_[War = Freedom. Soldier = Honor. Spy = Duty. Victory = Hope. Future = Past. Peace = Lifetime. Home = Heart. You = Elegance.]_

* * *

_Meanwhile, in New York City..._

 

“Come here, come here,” Abe gently said as he lifted his son up from Mary's arms and cradled him to his chest. “Oof, you're getting bigger, aren't you Thomas.”

His son cooed and gave a silly grin as he heard Mary say, “City life seems to suit him, though it seems that both he and I miss the spacious rooms of Whitehall and our home.”

“We'll return home one day,” he stated as he bounced his son up and down for a moment. “Whatever happens in the future, I promise that we'll go home when this war ends.” Handing his son back to his wife, he said, “I may be home a little later than usual, Mary, so please don't wait up for me.”

“South docks again?” she asked as he picked up the small coin pouch on the table and slipped it into a pocket before putting on his jacket and hat.

“Yeah,” he answered, opening the door to the modest shared house that they lived in with Abe's father. After they had evacuated to the city, Hewlett had managed to use what influence he had to house the Woodhull family in the northern section of New York – away from the hustle and bustle of the busy city. It allowed Abe's father to recover from his wound in peace, and gave Abe a chance to till a small plot of farmland – to recover some semblance of their life back in Setauket.

“I'm hoping the cabbage seeds are delivered today,” he stated. As he exited the house, breathing in the crisp, cold, and unfamiliar air of the city, he quickly made his way down and across what was to become a small cabbage field soon. Everything that he told Mary was true, but not the whole truth of his intent in the heart of the city today. In a strange way, he was glad to no longer be tied to Setauket – it had been a few harrowing months of ensuring that his wife did not discover the codebook or his spying activities. Though he no longer had the codebook with him, there were still words that he remembered for their numeric equivalent – thus today would be the same as yesterday – explore some more and try to possibly send troop numbers to Washington.

In the confusion that had ensured after British forces had been unceremoniously booted from Setauket, he had seen and heard Ben address those who had been trapped within the tavern. Most stayed, but a few had immediately taken what they had on them and started walking. Abe had asked Ben to allow his father to stay at Whitehall until he was fully recovered, and though Ben had allowed it, Abe's father was anything but cordial to the graciousness of Setauket's new hosts. Some choice and quite strong words had been said by Abe's father into Ben's face, and then he had insisted on making the journey to New York City right then and there in his carriage. Despite protesting and trying to reason with his stubborn father, it seemed that they had come to an impasse. Reluctantly, Abe had ushered Mary and Thomas into the carriage, with Mary fussing over Abe's father, and Abe had driven the carriage, joining the caravan out of Setauket.

These past few days of resettling and finding a steady source of income without being dependent on the generosity of Major Hewlett, who had been, surprisingly, vouched for by the still-unknown captain that had held the strange rifle, had been trying. Hewlett had been reassigned to a border patrol garrison just north of the small house and northern farm they were living in, and occasionally visited them. Abe's father had initially invited Hewlett to board with them, but fortunately, Hewlett had declined, stating that it was much better for him to board at an officers' boarding house a few blocks east of where they were.

It was there, at the officers' boarding house, that he found out that Hewlett had also used his influence to procure a place for Anna to work. He had been utterly gobsmacked that Anna had leapt into further danger by not staying with the Patriot forces and instead, decided to steal a horse and gallop into the ranks of the British soldiers, claiming with quite a lot of conviction to seek refuge from her estranged Patriot husband. Abe had seen Selah attempt to chase her down, but Hewlett had ordered the men to double up and protect Anna. It was only because of the men armed with the strange rifles who stood with the Regulars that Selah and others who had joined him in his chase, give it up.

He had only seen Anna once after they had arrived in New York City, but even then, it had only been a glimpse of her. He had not found a viable way to communicate with her, due to the number of British officers surrounding her place of employment. His frequenting around the boarding house would only draw suspicion from anyone around this place, especially without a legitimate excuse to be there. Still, he passed by it each morning that he had been there, and today was no different.

Except...

“Mrs. Strong!” he boldly called out as he saw Anna emerge from the boarding house, holding a small cloth-covered basket and done up in an everyday cloak, covering her dark brown, plain working dress. Now was as good of a time as ever that he would get, for it looked like Anna was being sent on an errand of sorts.

“Mr. Woodhull,” she greeted in kind with as bland of a smile as possible as she joined him on the main road. “It's been a while.”

“Yes,” he answered, looking around in as discreet of a manner as possible. “It certainly has.” He pointed to the basket, “How has the city life been treating you?”

“Well,” she answered, “though this is not for my errand on the south pier marketplace. If you have time, Mr. Woodhull, I'd like to introduce you to a friend.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding, though he kept the puzzled look off of his face. The way she spoke her words did not indicate that she meant for them to slip off to somewhere isolated and talk. It sounded as if she truly was intent on introducing him to someone. “It's good to see that you're already making friends, Mrs. Strong, what with Selah and all.”

“Yes,” she answered in a very short tone. “Truly a pity that had to happen.” However, a moment later, she schooled her expression to a less stormy one as she beckoned him to follow her. “Please, Mr. Woodhull, this way.”

As the two of them walked, winding their way past knots of people enjoying a fine spring morning before they had to run whatever errands they had do, he managed to keep up a light, almost blandly uninteresting conversation between them. They also walked with more distance between them than they had in a while – not only was it to ensure that no one suspected them, but it was also attributed to the fact that whatever passionate yearning he had for Anna had been broken and tempered by the fact that Selah was alive and had shown up in Setauket.

Anna suddenly turned into an alleyway and as they traversed further into it, unease crept through Abe's consciousness. He looked around, seeing broken windows and decrepit-looking buildings, surrounded by the overwhelming stench of rotted food and flies everywhere. Beggars laid next to the sides of the buildings, begging for scraps of food, but Anna continued onwards, deeper into this uncomfortable place, seemingly not at all nonplussed about the dangers that surrounded her.

“Anna...” he began, but stopped as they emerged into a tiny square of sorts, surrounded by tall, derelict buildings and even filthier alleyways in between.

“Who's this chap, Pretty Lady?” a nasally voice suddenly said as shadows emerged from the alleways, including the one that they had travelled through. Those shadows resolved themselves into men of ill-repute, with some carrying paddles of sorts, and in one particular case, an iron poker.

“He's a friend of mine,” Anna confidently stated. “A _trusted_ friend. Is Robert here?”

“Sure, Pretty Lady,” the nasally one, the one holding the iron poker said. “but can _we_ trust him?”

“Anna,” he nervously said. “What's going on?”

“Hey, look at the farmer boy. He's about to piss in his pants,” one of the beggars taunted.

“Mr. Johannssen, I don't believe that you're displaying proper manners. Leave him alone or else your share will be given to another,” Anna suddenly admonished.

“Yes, ma'am,” the same man who taunted him meekly said.

“Enough,” a new voice spoke up and a man dressed in what looked to be formerly plain clothes without any sort of buckles or shiny buttons upon his dirtied vest and shirt, pushed forward. “That's enough. Clearly Mrs. Strong trusts him with her life, otherwise she wouldn't have brought him here, would you, Mrs. Strong?”

“No, I wouldn't,” Anna answered, looking quite annoyed. “And where were you this morning, Robert?”

“Marty and Frank had to take care of two lobster-backs that were following either you or Mr. Woodhull here. I reported it to them and saw it done,” the man answered, before turning to Abe and sketching a brief bow, saying, “Robert Townsend of Oyster Bay, at your service.”

“Um, Abraham Woodhull, sir.”

“Two lobster-backs?” Anna said before Abe could further introduce himself and ask any questions. “Simcoe?”

“Unfortunately not, Mrs. Strong. We still do not know where he is.”

Abe saw Anna thin her lips in frustration and anger, but instead of lashing out as she had been prone to do whenever Simcoe was mentioned, she instead, reached to uncover the basket, revealing its contents. Scrumptious-looking day-old food sat in the basket and she handed the entire thing over to Townsend, who plucked a piece of bread and apple out of it before passing the basket around to those gathered. When the food was gone and the basket returned to Anna, she merely closed the covering and held it to her side.

“Then I shall see you gentlemen tomorrow,” she stated after a moment. “Good day.”

“And Mr. Woodhull?” the nasally-voiced beggar asked, as Abe saw Townsend step to the side to allow him and Anna through.

Anna paused and turned her head slightly, saying, “If he so chooses, he may be my representative whenever I am unable to come. Please treat him as you have done for me, gentlemen.”

“Make sure you bring delicious chicken, Woodhull!” another chortled as they resumed walking down the same alleyway that they had entered.

As soon as they exited and returned to the main street, Abe nearly collapsed, but it was only through sheer will that he kept himself standing. Never had he been that scared for his or someone else's life. However, fright was rapidly turning into anger as he opened his eyes and stepped in front of Anna, preventing her from proceeding any further into the street. “What the hell was that?” he hissed, keeping his voice as low as possible so that no one else could hear what they were saying.

It was fortunate for them that they were in an area on the main street that was not crowded or full of people, due to the unsavory countenance that the area exuded. “Those were friends of mine--” she began.

“Friends?!” he asked, incredulous. “They were rapists, murderers, beggars, and thieves! They are not 'friends'!”

“They saved me, Abraham!” she whispered. “Robert and the others – they saved me that one night I got lost trying to get back to the boarding house! You don't know what its like for a woman, unmarried or married, to be walking alone after dark in an unknown city, after being sent on a fool's errand by your employer, only to be harangued and harassed by drunk British officers!”

“Anna...”

“It seems that British officers also have an interest in you, Mr. Woodhull,” the voice of Townsend spoke up as both of them turned to see the tattered-clothed man emerge from the shadows. “Though I can only presume that their interest in your persons is decidedly different than the interest they had in Mrs. Strong here that night.”

“Abe?” he heard Anna question in concern.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he stated, and it was true – he wasn't aware of any redcoats following him about the city in the past few days. He passed many, but none had taken a second glance at him, for he wore the red poppy quite clearly on the lapel of his jacket.

“Your wife, Mr. Woodhull,” Townsend stated, “seems to have emerged from your home this morning and talked to the two British officers stationed just across your home. They started following you, and while inconvenient, I could not allow them to discover those who live in this little neighborhood, thus I reported it to Frank and Marty. Fear not, Woodhull, for we are men of non-violent means. The officers have just been knocked out by what they presume are hooligans and are sleeping it off in a small stable near here.”

“Who...what were you...before...this?” Abe asked after a moment, taking the time to stew on the revelation. He knew that he should not believe the words of this particular man, especially since he was still a virtual stranger. But the fact that Anna truly seemed to believe in Townsend's words, judging from the crease in her forehead that he knew to be her 'worry-face', concerned him. Mary's behavior since their departure from Setauket was a little odd, but he had attributed it to still recovering from the shock of moving and of the fact that they could no longer call Setauket home.

“As I told you, I am Robert Townsend. I used to own and run a rather modest boarding house near the south pier marketplace. However, during the past winter, British redcoats came in and demanded that I submit to arrest for a crime I know not of. I happened to not be there at the time, for I was running an errand, but my father was. He had been visiting and had taken upon himself to tend to the guests while I ran my errand. He was assaulted by the officers with undue force and with no cause, and now resides in Sugar House Prison for crimes unknown. One of my former patrons got word to me about the illegal arrest and I ran until I found myself within this little community.”

Townsend paused, giving both of them a faint, sardonic smile, saying, “You see, Woodhull, I'm just like you and Mrs. Strong here in more ways than one. A Patriot stuck in the viper's nest of redcoats and just trying to survive.”

* * *

_Weeks later..._

 

_[Don't smell the letter.]_

Smiling for it was certainly something that he knew that she would possibly say to him, he glanced towards the bottom of the letter and found a small sentence that was encrypted just like the four words she had written. Carefully decrytpting it, he could not help but give a short bark of laughter at what exactly had been written.

_[You smelled the letter, didn't you?]_

“I certainly will now,” he whispered to himself as he folded it halfway back up before bringing it to his nose. There was a very faint scent of lavender on the parchment, but as quick as he had discerned it, it disappeared. It was a very lovely scent, and with all things considered, the scent seemed to fit her perfectly. Removing it from the vicinity of his nose, he folded it completely before tucking it within his jacket's pocket.

Drawing a fresh piece of parchment, he smoothed it out on his desk before dipping his quill into the inkwell. Withdrawing it and allowing the excess ink to drip before poising the tip of the quill in the center of the parchment, he paused for a moment to consider his reply. Mentally encrypting it, he then wrote, using the same double encryption that she had used, three words:

_[Yes, I did.]_

Placing the quill back into the inkwell, he gently blew on the ink to dry it quicker. Picking up a small amount of sandy dirt he sprinkled it on the parchment to help the ink set and cleaned the rest off with a gentle pat against the back of the parchment. Folding it until it was squared, he tucked it within the missive he had written to Sackett – it would be delivered to his mentor who would know to give it to Natalie. It was how her letters had come to him – buried within Sackett's letter so that correspondence between him and Natalie remained secret from everyone else. He did not want to draw undue attention to her.

He took the stick of red wax and heated it against the candle flame. He placed a dollop of it on the meeting edge, sealing the letter, then set it to the side to allow it to dry.

Breaking the seal of wax on Washington's letter, he unfolded it and was rewarded with three pages of encrypted passages. Making a face, even though there was no one else to see his expression, he took up his quill again and began scratching out the decryption on a separate piece of parchment. He diligently worked on it until it was fully decrypted, and by the time he was done, it was already nearing mid-afternoon. As he read through, he paused and rifled through the pile of the latest reports that were on his desk. Pulling out the one he was looking for, he quickly glanced through it before turning slightly to retrieve the small map of the region that was rolled up and lying against a sack of oats that had been stored in his tent.

Taking the scouting report, Washington's letter, and the map, he spread all three objects out on top of his cot's blanket. Using whatever heavy objects he could find, including his helmet, he weighed the map down and carefully traced a couple of areas on the map. Stepping outside, he picked up a couple of fallen thin branches and broke them up into pieces while tearing the leaves off. Setting the pieces upon the map, with the sticks as Continental forces, and the leaves as British forces, he glanced back at the letter and the report.

As he rearranged the map to the report and then added details that Washington had sent him, he could feel a smile work its way up his lips. There was a British supply caravan that was about to depart from near Westpoint and make its way across to possibly resupply patrols between Danbury and the coastal Connecticut towns. Scanning the rest of the contents of Washington's letter, there was no more to add to the information and he folded it back up, stuffing that and the scout report into the other side of his jacket's pocket.

“Caleb!” he shouted as he left his tent and spotted his friend sitting among some of the men next to a campfire, playing what looked like a mean game of draughts. “Caleb!”

Upon hearing his name, Caleb immediately looked up and broke into a bushy-bearded grin before slapping one of the men on the back and got up, heading over to him. “Got something you need done, Benny-boy?”

Though Caleb's breath reeked strongly of whisky, Ben ignored it and said, “Care to send word to our mutual friend about a raid on British supplies?”

“Eh, really, Tall-boy?” his friend asked, slightly dubious. “I mean, the man's got pretty advanced weaponry. This raid...it's probably child's play to him and they're more liable to set Connecticut on fire. As much as I love Long Island, I do care about this region too – good tavern down in Westport that serves the best clam chowder in the area. Hate to see it on fire. We can take this caravan on our own.”

Leaning in slightly he said in a lower tone, “I heard that there might be some of those advanced rifles for us in this raid.”

“Ooooh,” Caleb said after a moment, as Ben saw his eyes light up in glee. He knew that his friend had spent quite a lot of time learning how the strange rifles operated and worked while in Setauket with the garrison. He had not heard the end of just how fascinating the rifles were and how much of an advantage they would have on the battlefields with them – that was if they could get ones that were not attached to working only with authorized persons. With the report from Washington detailing what the potential supply may actually be from a Sackett-trained spy-scout – not a member of the Culper Spy Ring – who risked his life to discover the contents of the supply caravan, perhaps they would finally be armed with something that could challenge any patrol group that contained Britannian forces.

Not that they had encountered any such mixed patrol group yet – Ben was grateful for that – but as the weeks and months passed, he was becoming more confident that the thirty Britannian soldiers were not the only foreign advance force to be integrated into British forces. With no word yet from Abe about the situation in New York, educated guesses were all they could do until evidence could be presented to them or one of the generals under Washington encountered mixed British and Britannian forces. It was only a matter of time.

“We'll probably need them then. But it's finders keepers, Tall-boy,” Caleb said. “I'll even teach our boys how to use them...properly.”

“Finders keepers, Caleb,” he agreed.

* * *

Abe had not confronted his wife about the two redcoats that she had seemingly sent to follow him that particular day. However, he had become more careful and cautious in everything that he did. He even began to carry a small blade hidden within a leather bracer and sheathe that was wrapped over his left wrist and hidden by his clothes. Since that day he met Robert Townsend, he had not gone back to the 'neighborhood' where the man and his ilk were, greatly preferring not to associate with them unless he had to. He worried for Anna and her safety among those men, but short of telling Hewlett, which he was not going to do, there was nothing he could do but have faith in her.

Now though, as he casually wandered around this particular pier and the dockside warehouses that stood silent. Guards rarely made their rounds here, and for the past few days, he had been quietly observing the comings and goings of a particular group of guards. He had stumbled into it by accident, having listened to the idle chatter among those patrolling the south pier marketplace and overheard two of them talking about this particular warehouse and provisions being needed to keep 'rebel prisoners' alive. He had initially thought it had been the prisoners being kept at Sugar House, but then heard specific numbers being dropped about requested provisions from a market seller who had apparently been contracted to provide certain food stocks from unsold wares.

That particular number had been 'four' and as Abe slept on the information that night, he realized that the 'rebel prisoners' might have been the four missing from Setauket. Thus he had begun his near-daily scouting of the warehouse whenever he had not been busy exchanging what coin they had left for more variety of seeds to sow in the small patch of farmland. Come harvest, he hoped to recoup the losses and perhaps, make a profit in fresh vegetables that he knew the military commissary needed. If not, there was always the black market and another trip out to see if the new dead drop yielded any information or instruction for him.

The warehouse that he had been observing had been emptied of its guards for the past two days he had wandered by, and as he glanced around again, seeing no one, he sprinted across the wharf and to the warehouse. Loose planking on the pier caused some noise as his footsteps bounced them up and down, but as he disappeared into a corner and peeked out, there were no souls around. Turning back towards the entrance, he lifted the slat of wood that had been placed on the hooks to prevent people from opening the doors from the inside. Gently placing it to the ground, he yanked one of the doors open, only to find that the pale moonlight streaming from the sky yielded him an empty warehouse.

“Where are they,” he muttered to himself as he stepped back, placing a hand on his mouth for a moment before sudden footsteps behind startled him.

Turning, he nearly shouted, but managed to keep his mouth shut as he saw Townsend place a finger up near his lips to silence him. “They've been moved,” the man stated. “Whomever they had been keeping there have been moved to places I know not.”

“How-how long?”

“How long ago, or how long have I known about these four poor souls stuck in this overheated coffin?”

“Both?”

“I've only heard rumors recently of prisoners being kept up and down this particular area, but I believe they were moved sometime last night,” Townsend answered. “What was your interest in them? They seemed to not be war prisoners of sorts.”

“They were taken from my hometown, and had been, or could still be used as leverage against certain people I know,” he stated.

“Ah, political prisoners then,” the man nodded, though Abe thought he heard something within the man's tone that raised his suspicions. Fortunately, that was put to rest as the man said, “I've also heard rumors around the streets that political prisoners are no longer being taken to Sugar House Prison...and are instead, transported to some...cave...”

“Cave?” Abe scoffed, “What, they couldn't afford the rent anymore on the 'comfort's of New York's finest converted prisons?”

“Come with me, Woodhull,” Townsend said, gesturing for him to follow. Intrigued, though still thinking that it was quite an absurd idea, he decided to humor the beggar. Shutting the door, and placing the slat back in it's proper place, the two made their way back down the pier and into the main street. Winding through nighttime groups, along with patrol units, he was slightly glad that no one stopped them, for even though Townsend was a beggar living off of whatever scraps he could find – if Anna was not bringing food to the 'neighborhood' – the man at least still kept his clothes in a somewhat respectable state. The nighttime helped, though if a patrol or anyone got too close to them, they would be able to easily see with the moonlight that there were moth-eaten holes within Townsend's clothes.

Passing through several alleyways, they finally arrived at a modest back area of a neighborhood and stopped before a community well. “It's a well,” he stated, staring at the dark reflective water that shimmered slightly with the moonlight.

“Before I was forced out of my boarding house, I heard a story of a young child falling into a completely empty well that had been full the night before. The child was rescued and only suffered some bruises, and the well covered to prevent anyone else from the same fate. However, since that day, I've heard rumors of at least three, if not four more wells, such as this one also being completely and inexplicably drained. No other persons or child has fallen into them, but those have also been boarded up and the residents who depend on those wells have had to draw their water from other ones further away. Some have even moved.

“Now, because its such a inconsequential thing that only affects those who immediately need it, its not been a priority on the British to investigate it. Of all the wells that have supposedly dried up, three of them are near the north side of where the Great Fire was stopped, but one of them is on the south side, near where British high society has decided to defrock this city with their sins. The boys and I have already investigated the three and found nothing but bone-dry earth on the bottom. We haven't gotten a chance to investigate the one in the south because...well, look at us.”

Abe nodded, as he said, “Ah, well, what does this have to do with a cave?”

“While we were down in the empty wells, we thought we heard voices, strange sounds, and--”

“Townsend,” he said, holding his hands up to stop the man from rambling. “You... you sound pretty addled. Perhaps you should go back to your little 'neighborhood' and sleep it off, yeah?”

“If I was, then why did we hear this strange buzzing sound like bees each time we investigated?” the man challenged, looking mildly offended. “Sounds similar to _bzzt-bzzt_...like a bee.”

“Wait, bees...buzzing sound?” Abe asked, as he realized that he had heard that mimicked sound before, but certainly not from a nest of bees. The sound from Townsend's mouth was more akin to something that he had recently witnessed and heard fired – certainly something that he was still coming to terms with, especially since he could scarcely believe that people four hundred years from the future had some how ended up here.

“Yes.”

“Where did you say this well was again?”

“On the south side of the borders where the Great Fire stopped.”

Abe nodded absently as he stepped back, a hand on his chin in thought. If the rumors that Townsend had been tracking down were true, then this 'cave' of sorts may be where the four missing people from Setauket were. And given what happened in Setauket, perhaps these 'future-people' as he called them in his mind, were holding the four in whatever prison-cave that may be underground. Lifting his hand from his chin and scratching his head for a moment, he asked, “Do you know of any cave entrances north of the farmlands?”

“No,” Townsend answered. “But one or two prospectors have gone up the Hudson Valley to explore. If they have found any caves entrances, there's probably Indians guarding them. Heard that they hold a few of those places sacred.”

“All right, I'll see what I can do about that well, Mr. Townsend,” he said. “In exchange, I have a something else I need from you.”

“Name it, and I'll see if it can be done.”

“Numbers. British troop numbers, locations, ships, guns...you name it, I need it.”

“And what, pray tell, do you plan to do with these...numbers?” the man asked, narrowing his eyes slightly in suspicion.

Abe flashed him a quick, simple smile of what he hoped to be confidence. “Nothing yet. I just wanted to know just how surrounded we are on this island.”

“There's a price for that, Woodhull,” Townsend said, folding his arms across his chest. “It's going to take some time and you're going to have to help with the counting too. They know all of our faces, and with you wearing that red poppy, you'll have an easier time gaining access to restricted areas.”

“Fine, fine. Just get me what you can and let me know where you can't go.”

“Done.”

* * *

_Morristown, late August..._

 

“Is it me or has the camp grown a lot larger since we've been here last?” Ben heard Caleb ask as they cleared the woods and finally emerged to find that the former wheat fields that surrounded the southern side of the Morristown camp had been completely chopped away. Tents of varying sizes, small campfires, and many men dressed in the blues and browns of the Continental army dotted the area. A few of the men greeted them with hearty shouts as the 2nd Continental Light Dragoons marched through. Ben responded by waving his hand slightly at them to acknowledge the greetings, while he heard some of his men shout a few jesting insults in reply.

“See if you can find a place for our boys to settle down,” he told Caleb. “Somewhere where they won't be bothered too much about the rifles they're carrying, and won't start a forest fire if they so choose to practice their marksmanship.”

“Yeah,” his friend replied. “Far away and quiet.”

As Caleb whistled for the rest of the dragoons to follow him, Ben guided his horse onwards towards headquarters. Flanking him were Samantha and Brewster, both of whom had joined him as soon as he had sent word to Setauket about the dragoons being recalled to Morristown by Washington. As promised to his counterpart, he would bring up the idea and proposition of merging the two Spy Rings until the disentanglement of the two eras could be achieved. He would also take full control of both rings, per his counterpart's request and field information not only to Washington, but also to his counterpart. In return, his counterpart would employ multiple scouts up and down the Connecticut coast and as close to New York City as he dared to supplement reports from Abe.

Abe's report about the four missing people from Setauket along with the strange tip off about wells from a potential agent that he had already taken to calling 'Mr. Culper Jr.' had been very brief and bereft of information. He hoped that it was only due to the fact that Abe only remembered certain numbers for words, for he was aware that Abe's codebook had been left in Setauket and that there was no viable way to retrieve or send it to him without making it look suspicious. The tree hollow that they had previously designated as the dead drop had also changed because of how often Abe was allowed to go in and out of the city without suspicion. However, Ben had sent that particular report off to Washington, but he had not heard from his commander with regards to the report except to return to Morristown.

As for their action against the caravan report that had been delivered to him in late spring, it had been successful, and with his counterpart's help they had intercepted a shipment of twenty future-rifles, along with clothing, food, and tenting supplies. As promised to Caleb, he had claimed all of the rifles, but split the cartridges that enabled the rifles to function in shooting the blue bolts. The rest of the supplies had been split between the dragoons, Ridgefield, and Setauket. Picking the nineteen best marksmen in his unit, and giving Caleb one of the rifles for his own use, he had him teach them how to use and fire the rifles. The men had been quite wary of the rifles at first, but after Caleb had demonstrated it, showing no fear of the perceived 'witchcraft', the men started to accept the rifles and started to practice. While Caleb had claimed that the nineteen were not as accurate as he had seen the Setauket garrison function, they were pretty effective for laying down what he referred to as 'covering fire'. They were effective distractions to be utilized in battle.

Halting his horse in front of headquarters, he swung himself over the saddle and dismounted. Drummer boys, having seen the three of them arrive, scurried towards them and took the horses elsewhere to hand them off to the stable hands.

“Ah, I miss riding my Bellerophon. My ass wouldn't hurt as much as it does right now,” he heard Brewster say. “Can't freak out the locals, they say. They'll start burning people at the stake, they say. It'll be just like the Salem witch trials, they say. Fucking hell.”

“Bellerophon?” he questioned, slightly surprised at himself for completely ignoring the cursing as if it were a typical conversation point that need not to be pointed out. He supposed that it was only because he was perhaps getting used to just how she spoke and rarely meant any disrespect towards anyone. As they made their way up to the entrance and were met by the two guards who looked at them until Ben removed his helmet, tucking it to the side, and told them, “These two have also reports to present.”

The guards gave his two companions shrewd looks, but neither Samantha or Brewster removed their helmet and oversized tricorn, respectively. After a few moments of waiting, both finally removed their head coverings and it was only then that the guards allowed them through. As Ben entered, he was concerned with what had just happened – the two guards were people he did not recognize to be a part of Washington's personal guards, and the fact that they had clearly seen two women disguised as men made him worried about loose tongues.

“Yeah, my robotic horse,” Brewster answered but did not elaborate as they stepped in to find that the entire place was extremely crowded and quite noisy. Aides and officers were walking everywhere from room to room, and it almost seemed like a madhouse.

“Ah, Major Tallmadge!” he heard an unfamiliar voice call out to him and saw a thinly tall man dressed in a uniform that looked similar to Washington's personal guards, but not so as he saw the epaulets upon the man – Lieutenant Colonel.

“Sir,” he greeted, unsure as to the name of the man.

“Alexander Hamilton, Major,” the man answered, tipping his head slightly towards them before noticing the two women behind Ben. Giving the two a deeper nod of his head, the man stated, “General Washington told me to watch for your arrival, along with these two...women... He is currently in the main drawing room, if you please.”

“Yes, sir,” he answered, though as he and his companions made their way down the hall to the main room, he was worried. The fact that Samantha and Brewster were certainly causing many to pause from their hurried steps everywhere in the house was concerning, but it was the fact that many of them did not look as surprised as he thought they would be upon seeing women dressed in Continental uniforms.

Upon entering the room, he could hear the murmurs of Washington and a couple of other commanders gathered around the map-covered table. Nods of assent and of thoughtfulness gave those around the table an image of bobbing seagulls about to feast upon a meal. He saw Hamilton approach Washington's side, whispering some words into his ear before their commander nodded while continuing to speak to those gathered and handed the man a thick packet of what looked to be dispatches. Hamilton quickly left, and soon afterwards, Washington halted his debrief and looked up.

Though Washington's eyes were quite inviting, the other commanders were anything but as Ben felt their intense gazes settle not only upon him, but also upon the women. He noticed that General Scott was also present, but made no indication of acknowledging his former commander. “Major Tallmadge,” Washington quietly greeted in a calm tone.

“Sir,” he answered, hoping that his voice did not betray the unease and sudden nervousness he felt. He had been present in briefings such as this before, with other generals, but this one felt oddly nerve-wracking, and he knew that it was solely attributed to the fact that the two women behind him were causing it. “I have current reports from Danbury-Ridgefield, coastal Connecticut, mid-state New York, and eastern Long Island, to brief the room if it pleases you.”

“Long Island would do, Tallmadge,” Washington said, “though I believe that these gentlemen here are specifically quite interested Setauket and the events of this past early spring.”

Ben turned slightly and gestured for Samantha and Brewster to step out from behind him before pointing to the cloths that were wrapped around their weapons. He saw the two unwrap their pistol and rifle, respectively, and placed them on the table. There was a collective rise of concerned murmurs, but he stated, “These may look like dangerous and strange weapons, but each can only be fired by the persons they are imprinted upon.”

“Witchcraft,” he heard one of the commanders murmur, with a few heads nodding in agreement. Scott and Washington were the only ones to refrain from showing any agreement or disagreement.

Ignoring the commander's words, he continued on, though with not knowing just how much Washington had revealed to the others, he decided to start with his intent in Setauket. “We took action at Setauket because we ran into a Patriot who managed to escape the British garrison who was on a witch hunt for traitors and spies within the town. Major Edmund Hewlett was the garrison commander, with Captain John Graves Simcoe as his deputy.” He saw Scott nod at his mention of Simcoe.

Continuing, he said, “Simcoe, as you may have heard, was captured in Connecticut during a previous action against British forces. He was released into British hands following a prisoner exchange and evidently was sent back to Setauket. He became the instigator for aggression against the townspeople that ultimately led to the 2nd Light's attempt to free the town. It was an ambush that was reinforced by thirty soldiers who carried the same weapons as you see with the rifles. They call themselves Britannia, stylized after British forces some four hundred years into the future. We were saved by the timely arrival and intervention of forces belonging to that same future under the United States Army. These rifles and their tactics are unlike the rules of engagement and of war that we and the British adhere to. Instead, both sides seem to engage in warfare that is similar to how Iroquois and other tribes attack and ambush.”

“Then are they not Indians just disguised in the dressage of ours and the British?” one of the generals asked.

“They are not,” he answered. “They are men, women, black, mulatto, Indian, Oriental, and many more. Four hundred years and from all walks of life, these people have vowed, just like us, to defend and free themselves from tyranny. I can only assume that these Britannian forces who have allied themselves with the British forces are the same.” He paused for a moment, noticing that there were quite a few angry faces in response to his statement. However, no one spoke up and he said, “I was told by the commander of the military forces that helped the 2nd Light that history states that Setauket was not supposed to fall into our hands. We took it and expelled the British forces back to New York.”

“Irresponsible!” Scott spoke up. “We do not have the man power to defend such a small area when surrounded by British forces. It's a miracle that they have not yet launched an invasion to take it back--”

“It is so irresponsible, General Scott,” Washington stated before Ben could defend the actions of him and his counterpart, “to have the overwhelming number to take the tip of eastern Long Island to Setauket, thereby guaranteeing that we now have a sizable presence on the island and pose a credible threat to any who try to burn coastal Connecticut?”

“Sir,” Scott began, “It would take at least thirty if not more men to garrison each town on Long Island up to Setauket--”

“Tallmadge, how many did you say that this battalion commander has under his command?”

“Three hundred, sir,” he answered. “There are about one hundred men and women garrisoned around Setauket. A brig was also captured and sent to Sag Harbor. The other two hundred are scattered throughout the towns and villages east of Setauket. We have eyes along both sides of the coast, and the commander is willing to work with our forces to ensure that major routes along the northeast are safe for caravan and supply transport.”

“What of history, Tallmadge?” Scott asked. “Surely you remember the potential devastation that could happen if we are to change whatever history these people claim to have come from.”

“History is already changing, General Scott,” Washington answered in a quiet but intense tone. “By integrating thirty Britannian soldiers within a garrison the day that Tallmadge and his people arrived in the town, it shows the shrewd ways that the British are taking to win more than just this war. The only unfortunate outcome is that we have not found yet another sign of any other forces similar to the battalion that Tallmadge ran into.”

Ben saw his general gesture to the map of the region that contained not only New York City in the middle, but also most of Connecticut, nearly all of New York state, parts of Massachusetts, along with New Jersey, and Pennsylvania. Red rectangles, along with blue ones dotted the entire map, with quite a few stationed near the upper part of New York state. There were quite a few near the eastern part of New Jersey, and one long one stationed across the eastern half of Long Island. New York City was designated with a rather large cluster of red markers. Other short ones of either colors were scattered between all other areas. Sensing that the briefing was moving on to the more immediate matters, he stepped to the side to allow at least Brewster to also take a look at the map – it seemed that Washington, judging by his stance, was not adverse to the women being present for the rest of the briefing, and thus Ben was not going to dismiss them.

“Scouting reports have stated that there were multiple sightings of troops marching northward to Saratoga carrying bundles of cloth in the same manner that this rifle was wrapped in,” Washington began, gesturing to the rifle before moving a couple of red pieces up along the Hudson River. “We know that Fort Westpoint is currently occupied with at least three hundred British forces and that none have been sighted to move up the river. We can safely say that this particular movement of troops is Britannia's intervention.” Removing at least two of the red markers from New York City, along with smaller ones, Washington placed them on the coast of the Atlantic, near Chesapeake Bay, saying, “Intercepted correspondence indicates that General Howe has gathered the necessary force and will be attempting to invade Philadelphia soon in an attempt to draw our eyes away from Saratoga, Albany, and our Canadian allies. They mean to take Albany after Saratoga and divide the east from the west. Reports have cited Howe being not in possession of such armaments as the Saratoga force has, but nevertheless, he means to take our capitol.”

“We have the numbers to offer him battle, if he so chooses to engage,” the general stated. “But we also must send reinforcements to Saratoga. I ask each of you to send twenty to thirty of your best marksmen to Saratoga.” Washington looked up from the map to see heads nodding before Ben saw the general pin his eyes back on him, saying, “Major Tallmadge, you've intercepted weapons belonging to these future people in eastern New York, correct?”

“Yes, sir,” he answered, nodding.

“The marksmen that have been trained to use the rifles are to go with the Saratoga reinforcement company.”

“All of them sir?” he questioned, unsure if they should keep any of them here for what he could only assume to be a campaign to protect Philadelphia from General Howe and the British army.

“All of them.”

“Aye, sir,” he acknowledged. While he was sure that Caleb would be able to control the men under his command, it would be their first time firing the weapon in combat without the supervision of any of the future people. At least he thought it would be, for he would prefer to have at least Brewster and Samantha on the Philadelphia campaign to provide much needed eyes and ears that their own scouts lacked. While he was quite confident of Washington's assessment, these past few months had opened his eyes to another world – a world of mistrust in most of what he saw, of something unfathomable that he could not shake. There was no dishonor in what he was doing as in his capacity as Head of Intelligence, but thoughts of winning the war in a capacity that did not involve heavy espionage and trickery were starting to become less and less frequent.

“Sir, should we not send elements of this force that assisted Major Tallmadge in the taking of Setauket, to Saratoga?” one of the general asked.

“It is not for us to dictate what this force does,” Washington stated, much to the surprise of everyone in the room. “I have corresponded with the commander of the three-hundred strong battalion, and have determined that it is better to allow them to stay on Long Island, for they chose to, and allow them to apply pressure to New York City. A certain application of invisible force bodes well for our campaign.”

Though surprised, Ben was also slightly disappointed at the same time that neither Washington or his counterpart had told him that they had been directly speaking to each other via letters. It also begged the question as to why his counterpart had specifically asked him to present the idea of merging the two Spy Rings when elements of the idea could have been alluded in letters.

“We march for Philadelphia in two days,” Washington stated.

* * *

_Brandywine, mid-September..._

 

Ben had ended up sending a little over half of the 2nd Continentals under the command of Caleb with the rest of the Saratoga expedition. Brewster went with Caleb, determined, in her words, 'to kick some hairy Britannia and British asses from here to back across the salty pond.' Samantha stayed, though there were clear concerns from many of the commanders who knew of the three women, of her abilities. Ben had tried to stand up for her, especially since their doubts of her felt like an indirect insult about him, but surprisingly, she had merely snatched up poor Hickey's pistol from its holster and demonstrated not only her competence and accuracy with the pistol by shooting and hitting the center grandfather clock at the end of the hall, but also her rather eloquent way with words that left everyone in the house feeling quite ashamed.

None of the men who had voiced doubts apologized to her, but Ben could see that they did take the time to avoid directly talking with her. Only Washington, Washington's manservant, Billy Lee, and he, Ben, continued to interact with her. He also found out that Washington had introduced the presence of the future people by the way of Natalie, though General Scott had already known but had kept it a secret until the revelation.

Admist all of the chaos, Ben had been hoping to at least have a quiet moment of reunion with Natalie, but it seemed that fate intervened, for the day he and the 2nd Continentals had arrived at Morristown, was the day that Natalie and Sackett had departed for a mission that he knew nothing about. Washington had deigned to tell him about the details of the mission, other than it was to verify something within one of the scouting reports. It slightly frustrated him that his commander wouldn't tell him about the nature of the mission, but in the two days before departure, that had been the least of his worries or duties. It also seemed that fate was determined not to let him or Natalie ever catch that moment of peace and determined that their correspondences of affection were to remain only in encrypted and unsigned letters – the day the army left Morristown for the defense of Philadelphia was the day Sackett and Natalie returned. He only managed to catch a glimpse of the lovely woman just as he was riding out within the head of the army.

Now, as Ben guided his horse around the bodies of the fallen in the latest skirmish that had taken place between forces commanded by Generals Stirling, Stephen, and Sullivan, continuing to secure the high ground of the Brandywine River's east banks, he had been ordered to report to Washington on the current status of the troops. Sweat trickled down his face, mixing in with small cuts and dirt that had sprayed into his face during the seemingly never ending waves of British forces that had assaulted their position since the morning. Soot from rifles and pistols coated him, along with the spray of blood and bone matter from dead cavalrymen who had fallen beside him. His sabre, coated in blood, was still out, for if he sheathed it, he knew that it would be stuck in the sheath for the rest of the battle, though it was being held to the side.

Despite the heavy fog in the morning that had since burned away and the fact that General Howe had not set up a traditional camp after landing and instead, pushed ahead and crossed Jeffery's Ford. The numbers that they had initially received from scouts contradicted each other. However, despite the conflicting reports, it seemed that the British indeed, were intent on taking the area. The lines were holding though--

_Pwwt-pwwt!_

Ben instinctively ducked as he spurred his horse onwards, glancing back to see that yet another line of British forces were advancing once again. His men were in good hands, and as yet a second firing line let loose, his horse trampled through the woods and away from the skirmish. He could hear and feel the heavy and labored breathing of his horse, but he continued to urge it onwards as fast as possible. They were holding, they had the higher ground, but with the battle already in its seventh hour, fatigue was already settling in. General Sullivan, overall commander for this particular contingent, would need the reinforcements from Generals Wayne, Scott, and Greene, who were downstream of the river.

The ride to Washington's post was arduous and longer than he liked, but once he arrived he didn't bother too much with dispensing pleasantries as he saw his commander gesticulating with his hands towards an officer before peering into his spyglass towards a heavily wooded area. Ben saw the bodyguards shift uneasily as he barreled into the area, horse foaming at the mouth, but before he could get a word out, the high-pitched shout of Samantha cut into the air, saying, “General Washington!”

He saw her burst out of the eastern woods, helmet completely gone and uniform covered in quite a lot of gunpowder soot. Even though she had proved that she was quite capable of taking care of herself on and off the battlefield, Washington had personally requested her to stay by his side as a peripheral scout before the battle had begun. They had been words that she had not wanted to hear, and Ben had seen the hurt look appear as quickly as it disappeared upon her face. She accepted the order with grace, and now, despite Washington's attempts to shield her, it seemed she had engaged in battle.

“Hessians and a column of men armed with laser rifles have been sighted and are making their way from Chadd's Ford towards this position. Generals Greene, Scott, and Wayne have engaged, but they need reinforcements!”

“Howe's attacks on our higher position has not broken through yet,” he supplied, not letting the shock of hearing the fact that there truly were Britannian forces among the British forces settle. Someone or someones passing multiple reports rife with false information had deceived Washington. “Sir, I can take my dragoons and attempt a charge to break their lines – give them some time.”

“Do so, Tallmadge,” Washington ordered after what Ben could only interpret as an uncharacteristic moment of hesitation from him. They had no heavy cavalry force among the army – almost everything horse-related had been sent to Saratoga with haste. The only semblance of a cavalry force they had were what was remained of the divided 2nd Continental Light Dragoons – and they were certainly not outfitted to take on heavy cavalry, much less soldiers armed with rifles that could instantly set things on fire. Still, he had to try, to help preserve the line. “Switch horses with the agent here. Hamilton, go with Tallmadge and let Sullivan and the others know of the situation. March as many as can be spared towards Greene's position.”

He immediately hopped off of his horse just as Samantha did the same to hers. Just as he passed by her, she whispered in a fierce tone, “Good hunting and don't die out there, Ben.”

“I won't,” he answered with as much confidence as he could muster, though it pained him to allow the lie to easily escape his lips. There was no force under God's good green earth that could protect him or his people from what they were about to do. But it had to be done – they needed to disrupt the Britannian line. They could not let British forces into Philadelphia.

Climbing onto the partially fresh horse, he gripped his sabre with a tight fist before kicking his horse off back towards where the three generals were. Riding behind him was Hamilton. The two arrived at the site where General Sullivan was standing behind his men, and while Hamilton quickly explained the situation, it was only after a nod in his direction from the general that he raced off to gather what was left of the cavalry portion of the dragoons.

“On me, men!” he shouted as he waved his sabre high in the air to catch the attention of his soldiers. “On me, cavalry of the 2nd Light!”

Six cavalrymen broke off from their attempts to pursue and harass British flanks who had strayed too far from the field and into the woods galloping towards him. They were seven total, originally fifteen in total that had come to Brandywine, but they were still fast enough to hopefully give the generals at Chadd's Ford the time they needed to regroup and mount an offensive.

Thunderous hooves pounded through the woods, splashing past swampy ponds and streams, trampling through small field patches belonging to the Quakers who lived in the region. Farmhouses, along with cows mooing their displeasure at being disturbed breezed across the eyes and ears of the men as the sounds of distant fire and the familiar _bzzt-bzzt_ of the strange rifles started to encompass the relative silence of the area they were charging through.

He guided them towards the last known position of General Greene, with the horses whickering their displeasure in being forced to gallop as fast as they could through the uneven and slippery ground. Greene had the lowest of the grounds they had positioned themselves upon, with Scott and Wayne on slightly higher ground. However, Greene also had a much larger force under his overall command of the area, and thus if they were breaking, then that was where they needed to be first.

At the top of the hill, he could see towards the edge of the woods and down into the river basin – Greene and his men were valiantly trying to hold the lines, to prevent the advance of Hessian and Britannian forces in their crossing of the river. A few of the enemy forces were already on the banks, and more were coming with each volley the Continental were unleashing. Ben guided the cavalry towards the edge of the woods on the rear of the enemy forces, but he did not pause and instead, kicked the sides of his horse.

“Charge!”

Seven light cavalry leapt from the relatively safety of the woods, yelling at the top of their lungs. The sudden appearance of a fierce wedge of blue and gold riders with sabres raised and ready to attack certainly gave the enemy pause, but it was what thundered after the initial charging light cavalry that had both the Hessians _and_ Britannian forces turning to defend against the new reinforcements. Even the men of the charging cavalry spared a glance back and found themselves mentally shouting oaths.

Bearing down upon Ben and the others were seven riders covered in what only could be described as menacing burnished metallic-like folded ribbon scales. It looked like scale armor of old, of what ancient English knights wore, for even their heads were covered. The seven were also riding what looked like horses, but those beasts were also covered in similar armor, though the only signs of life within the beasts seemed to be bright eyes colored in the red of blood peeking out.

It looked as if Satan was riding straight towards them, but at the last moment, swept past all of them. Ben caught a glimpse of something faintly etched on the side of the armor-covered horse – etched in the same manner that he had seen the inside of the future General Putnam's rifle etched.

[721]

He didn't know whether it had been divine Providence or just the fact that he had been so intent on his mission that the mental connection was instantly made between the etched numbers and who exactly had also charged into the battle. What he did know that the devilry that had appeared behind them were allies, and he spurred his horse onwards, reiterating his yell towards his men to follow. Slipping in behind the metallic wraiths, who all simultaneously drew out what looked to be flatly long rectangular sabres except with a sheen of blue reflecting the sunlight, he also brought his own sword to bear.

The black cavalry arrow formation crashed into the hail of blue bolts that had tried to cut them down. Men screamed in agony, curdling blood, but they were swiftly cut off by the second arrow formation of blue and gold, swinging their sabres and trampling additional enemy forces. The Hessians who had made it to the other side of the Brandywine River also fared little better as they too, were swiftly cut down by the black cavalry.

Spurred on by the surprise attack, Ben heard someone behind them yell 'Fire!', but it was quickly drowned out by the cacophony of flintlock rifles being discharged. It was only later that he would learn that because he and his men were there, in the midst of disorganizing the Britannia-Hessian lines that Greene did not fire into the devilish cavalry that had saved them. His horse whinnied in fright but he urged the beast onwards as he swung with his right hand towards his left in a down to upwards fashion, partially decapitating a Hessian who had attempted to pull him down from his horse. Spatters of blood flew upwards, coating his sword further while flecks of it landed on his face. Arcing back to the other side, he struck down and swept back up on his right, managing to fully slice a redcoat Britannian deepy across the chest and into his neck.

As the soldier fell to the ground, he looked up to see that the armored cavalry were tromping across the shallow part of the river, while seemingly and strangely being unaffected by volley after volley of the blue bolts being shot from the still advancing Britannian forces. The Hessians had broken their lines and were already running, and emboldened by the actions of the heavy cavalry, Ben approached and took the same route as the one in the lead. Staying close, and with Greene's men splashing across the water, determined to chase after the retreating forces he saw the Hessians fully turn to show their backs just as he reached the other side.

Stubborn Britannian forces kept advancing, even as ranks of them fell, and it was only because of how steadfastly they held to their lines, did Ben realize that these were not exactly Britannian forces – they were British forces armed with the future rifles. With the cavalry drawing most of the attention as the fourteen horsemen carved and cut their way through the lines, Greene had reformed lines, and was slowly advancing across the shallows, firing as they marched forward.

Ben knew that if he and his men stayed any longer, they would get caught up in the formations that were starting to be carved out. Just before he could call for a retreat and reformation of his tiny cavalry line, he heard a rather loud, booming voice that contained no quality of what constituted as a _natural_ , say, “Deploy shields. Set timer for one minute. Retreat and reform.”

Several cylindrical objects suddenly flew from the devilish cavalry's hands, arcing towards the space that separated the Continental lines on west side of the river from the enemy that was slowly being pushed back. Once the objects landed on the ground, something gold seared through the air before disappearing. He recognized it has the shield of sorts that reflected the blue bolts – indeed a buzz was already appearing in front of the puzzled Continentals as they saw the swarm of blue impact the shield instead of the retreating cavalry or them.

Ben joined the heavy cavalry, gathering his men with him and in silent acknowledgment, the two lines reformed their ranks, creating yet another double arrowhead formation. Galloping around the deployed shield, they arced up and to the right, smashing into the fourth and fifth lines of the British forces, and somewhere within the skirmish, Ben thought he saw the deployed shield disappears, before a roar of gunfire from Continental lines answered the scattered British forces.

Pain seared across his upper cheek as the closeness of a blue bolt nearly blinded him. But as he turned to engage the soldier who had fired at him, it was all for naught as the man pitched forward, his black rifle flying out of his hands, befell by a Continental rifle. A great roar that turned into a rousing cheer rose up from behind him as he saw that their second charge had finally broken the British spirit and they were turning around to retreat. Even in defeat, their lines of red held. He along with many of the others, raised their weapons in the air as the thrill of victory washed over them.

Turning slightly, he saw the stream of redcoats who had attempted to assault Scott and Wayne's positions also start to fall back as the roar of Continentals seeing the backs of British soldiers swept upstream. His own voice, hoarse from the many war cries and rally of the men, joined in with the cheer.

“A victory,” he heard his counterpart state as he glanced over to see the menacing black 'horse' with its rider sidle up next to him. The rider's arms were bereft of the strange metal-blue sabre and instead were holding what looked to be the reign attached to the front of the 'horse'. The 'horse' snorted, seemingly shaking its head and blinking its brightly unnatural red colored eyes, giving no indication of being weighed down by such heavy-looking armor.

He glanced back at the rider and instead of being completely covered in the burnished, scaled metal color that still spooked him, there was a small slit open in what he could only assume as the helmet. Eyes hooded by the metal helmet peeked out, but it was only because he recognized those eyes, having either seen it in his own reflection in a mirror or on Samantha that he knew it was his counterpart. That and also, he recognized his counterpart's voice.

“We've finally seen the backs of the redcoats,” he answered, coughing to clear his throat as best as possible. “The men shall certainly never forget that...or yours and your cavalry's contribution to this victory. It could have been worse.”

“It was worse,” he heard his counterpart quietly answer. However, before his counterpart could elaborate, Ben saw him tilt his head slightly before saying, “Something's not right. My men and I will investigate, sir.”

“Tallmadge,” he called out before his counterpart could guide his... 'horse' was not quite the word that he would truly label the beast that his counterpart was riding, through it certainly did look like one. Strangely enough, his own beast, though clearly exhausted, was not shying away from the metal and armor covered...thing. “Thank you.”

“I would say you're welcome and be done with it, sir,” his counterpart answered, “but I was also suffering from excruciating chest pains, hence why I and my men found you so easily. Please, for my and my cousin's sake, don't do anything that reckless again. We would like to live...sir.”

With those words, his counterpart spurred his beast from the field, and was soon joined by six others. A few of the cheering men watched them go, puzzled, but it was the sound of galloping hooves splashing across the river and onto the banks that next caught his attention. Turning his horse around so that he faced the incoming command staff of General Greene, he patiently waited until Greene was nearer before greeting, “Sir.”

“Allies of yours, Tallmadge?” Greene asked in a calm tone, seemingly unaffected by the pure hellish frightfulness that had aided them. “Enemies to these so-called 'Britannian' forces?”

“The enemy were British soldiers, sir,” he clarified. “They did not fire or assault on the position as I had seen Britannian forces do. They were British soldiers given advance weaponry...and you are also correct in your initial statement, though they are not allies of mine so much as they are Continental allies. Their being here is as much a puzzle to me as it is to you, sir,” He could only draw little from the statement that his counterpart had given him as to how exactly the small cavalry force had found him – had he completed the charge without help from his counterpart, he would have surely died under a hail of blue bolts.

The timing of his counterpart's arrival was also most suspicious for as they were marching to this area, the 2nd Continentals along with other light units ranged far and wide to ensure that their flanks and sides were not ambushed by British forces. No one had reported seeing seven devilish cavalrymen. First, Washington's multiple-confirmed scouting reports had been false, and second, now advanced heavy cavalry in the form of his counterpart showed up. It was all quite puzzling and most suspicious.

“I know not where the seven currently are except that their leader has told me that they are investigating something odd. However, with the retreat of British lines, I must return to Washington to report the news and of the victory at Chadd's Ford.”

“Please, do so,” Greene answered, surprisingly handing him a folded piece of cloth to clean his sabre, to which he gratefully accepted. “Thank you, Major, for yours and those...allies... most inspired attack. It seems that the hand of God has seen fit to send us this victory, even if in the disguise of the Devil... though if only to frighten the wits out our enemies.”

He quickly cleaned his sabre, wiping as much blood, bits of bone, cloth, and sinew that had been stuck to it, and sheathed the weapon. Tucking the dirtied cloth under the horn of his saddle, he tipped his helmet towards the general before gently kicking his horse into a light trot. As he and his men made their way back through the thick forests, interspersed with fields, he could still hear the echoes of cheers. However, it was slowly becoming fainter and fainter as gunfire and the occasional rallying cry replaced it. It seemed that though victory had been claimed downstream, those upstream were still fighting against the bulk of the British forces.

Emerging from the woods and to where Washington's position was, he instead, saw only Billy Lee, Washington's personal guards, along with Samantha perched upon their horses on the bluff. The sounds of artillery shells broke through the air, briefly drawing his attention towards where he saw six cannons, two facing the northwest, two facing directly west, and the final two facing the southwest, banked upon a knoll, firing at the still-advancing British lines. Washington was commanding the artillery line, and from what he saw, it told Ben that they had been hastily moved from a previous position. He was still seeing men streaming towards the cannons, bearing whatever they could carry by hand as fast as they could while others lead the oxen who had dragged the cannons to the knoll out of the way.

“Report,” he ordered as he brought his horse to a halt on the bluff. He knew that he needed to rejoin the lines, for even from this relatively safe view, he could see that despite Stirling and the others valiantly trying to rally the lines to hold, Howe seemed incredibly determine to break them at this point. He even saw Hamilton among the forefront of the lines, commanding the men to fire their rifles in unison – it seemed that strategies had drastically changed in the attempt to reinforce the Chadd's Ford lines.

“Shortly after you left, six lines of British forces emerged from the forest, complimented by Jaegers,” Samantha answered. “And now, we're getting reports of something bigger about to emerge from the forest--”

“What in God's name is that?” he heard Billy Lee whisper, pointing in the direction of the forest as he reached for his spyglass but found that the saddlebags that he had were not present. He felt a tap on his arm and glanced over to see that Samantha had handed him a spyglass – his spyglass. He had forgotten that he had switched horses with her.

“Thank you,” he said, taking the spyglass and peered through it. What he saw sent a cold, uneasy feeling worming its way down into his stomach as he saw two rather large wheels, with an elongated barrel carried in between that looked like a rather large rifle being dragged through the woods and into the open field. There were three of the objects, all familiar-looking, and each was being manned and dragged forward by at least six men. “Gatling guns,” he said, remembering the name of those types of weaponry that his counterpart had named during the taking of Setauket. “Three of them.”

Silence answered him as he glanced down towards where his general was, only to see him stare at new weapon that was about to be unleashed on the field, as if he could burn it away with his eyes. Not a moment later, he faintly heard Washington order the men to reload the cannons and ratchet up the angle of attack in response to this new threat.

Still peering through the spyglass, he saw the British forces start to collapse their formation, confusing the Continental lines. A few lines fired, but none down on the field, except for those in the 2nd Continentals, if they were still alive, knew what the new weapons were. Raising the spyglass back up to the Gatling guns, he saw them stop and begin to spin the Gatlings around – they were going to bring the guns to bear upon the Continental lines before the cannons could finish loading. However, that was not to pass, for he saw the gun crews being suddenly assaulted from the right side of the woods by streaks of black. He put down his spyglass as he couldn't help but give a whoop of joy, seeing seven distinctly armored cavalrymen barrel into the gun crews, scattering them while seemingly splintering the wagons the guns were upon.

With confusion sown into the back of the British lines, cannonades filled the air after a few moments, with their whistling roars bearing down upon the redcoats. Blackened dirt exploded into the air as the seven black cavalrymen disappeared into the other side of the woods. Splinter of metal, wood, and what was left of British forces who had been manning the Gatling guns, along with lines unlucky to be close to the guns flew through the air. Emboldened with yet another successive sight of their enemies being broken, the Continentals reformed their lines and under the guidance of their commanders, fired with confidence.

~~~

It was over in a matter of hours. Between the steady pounding of artillery under Washington's guidance, slowly advancing lines of Sullivan and the others, and the sudden appearance of reinforcing lines from Greene, Ben could see from his spyglass view of General Howe calling for a retreat. He had rejoined what was left of the infantry portion of his men during those hours, rallying them to ensure that the British did not attempt to flank them again. Twilight was fast approaching, but twice in one day, Ben saw the backs of retreating British redcoats, and he could feel the thrill of victory course through him, adding to his cheering yell.

In the midst of victory and the celebration and orderly withdrawal of forces, Washington had returned to the bluff, and Ben immediately guided his horse to his commander, saying, “My congratulations on an impressive victory, sir.”

“Aye, and thank you, Tallmadge, for also contributing quite effectively to it,” Washington answered, surprising Ben with his words. “I also heard from General Greene that certain seven 'black Devils' as the men have taken to calling them, also helped secure the flanks downstream.”

“They did sir,” he answered. “Those seven happen to be commanded by my counterpart--” He didn't get to finish his comment as he saw the seven riders, still covered in their strange armor, emerge from the woods behind the bluff. Washington's personal guards, along with Billy Lee, and Hamilton who had rejoined them, stiffened and almost drew out their sabres and pistols – if it weren't for the actions of Samantha.

“Hey!” she shouted with glee, leaping down from her horse and ran up to the one in the lead – the one with [721] etched into the side of his 'horse'. “Nice job with the Gatlings, Benji! It almost looked like a bowling game!”

Ben saw Washington wave down the guards and others, allowing the seven to approach. He tugged on the reigns and guided his horse over to the left of his commander, allowing some space on the bluff for his commander to greet the new arrivals. He saw his counterpart hold up a hand to halt the others, before he heard a distinct _click_ sound through the air. Not a moment later, the burnished dark metal scale-like armor seemed to turn into liquid and as if an egg had been smashed on their heads, all seven had their armors seemingly trickle down, revealing their identities. Even the horses had their armors, combined with the armor on the men and women, vanish seemingly back into their bodies. The horses, however, retained the eerie red eyes, though they looked quite like normal horses now, and not terrifying beasts.

“Cavalry, attention!” he heard his counterpart, dressed in the green-black-brown baggy uniform – 'BDU' as he had learned its name – with the familiar bowl-shaped helmet containing the single oak leaf on it, order. As one, the seven soldiers snapped to attention upon their horses, raising their right hands in perfect salutes directed at Washington.

He saw Washington return the gesture of respect with a slight tip of his hat and as one, the seven lowered their arms. “Major Benjamin S. Tallmadge of the United States Army's 2nd Legionnaires. It's an honor to finally meet you face-to-face, General Washington,” his counterpart stated. “If you would allow me to introduce my men and women: Sergeant Felicity Danshir, Corporal Franklin Sound, Corporal Victoire Romanova, Corporal Daneel Riviera, Private Jensen Liang, Private Jun Hiruma.”

“It is likewise an honor,” Washington said, “though my Head of Intelligence here has spoken highly of the great assistance you and your people provided at Chadd's Ford. While my words may be accusative, I do wonder what as become of our agreement in non-interference?”

“Your Nathaniel Sackett and my counter-intelligence agent, Natalie Sackett, brought word of counter-intelligence reports from British and Britannian sides being implanted within your own scouting reports,” Ben's counterpart explained, though he saw a great amount of hesitancy in the man's expression. “I wish to have brought more of my people, but I could not risk depleting eastern Long Island of its robust defense. I'm also afraid to be the bearer of bad news, but sir, you may also have traitorous elements of many ranks within your armies, including those possibly at the highest. I am not referring to whom we have discussed per the history that was supposed to have happened and had been confirmed as traitors to the freedom of the colonies. These may be new elements, for with the victory at Brandywine, we are now on a firm course into uncharted territory.”

 

~*~*~*~


	6. Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy (Pt. 1)

**Chapter 6: Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy (Pt. 1)**

 

Spirits were high for those who returned to Morristown after their resounding victory at Brandywine. Before their return though, they had been engaged in several more skirmishes that had taken place between attempted rallies by British forces and Continentals. Each had been successfully repelled until scouts confirmed that whaleboats bearing what was left of the British forces who had not retreated to Valley Forge, away. A rather hefty garrison, under the command of General Greene had been left in and around Philadelphia to ensure that the Britannian-armed British forces did not attempt to try to take the American capitol again. Congress had demanded a full report of what happened at Brandywine River, thereby delaying Washington's journey back to Morristown.

It had taken the rest of the army about a week and a half to return and resettle at Morristown, but to Ben, those days had passed by in a blur. Now though, a more restful mind had been replaced by worry and of the Continentals' next possible major action against the British in this heinous war – take New York City. They had eyes inside of the city and now that they had it, it had proved difficult and dangerous to smuggle out information thus far. There had been no signal from Abe since that brief report on the missing Setauket men and the city's wells. There was also worry for what his general was presenting to Congress, especially since details about the 'Devil Cavalry' as many of the men whispered throughout the march and at camp, were rife with speculation and of what was to come. The dangerous secret of the future-people among them was much too large to be kept only to themselves was sure to be out now.

Unsurprisingly, his counterpart and Samantha had both deigned to remain with the army once victory had been secured, and had instead returned to Setauket with much haste. Not one of the generals had tried to stop them, though none tried to stop the wild tales from being told around the campfire as soon as the eight future-people had left.

Samantha had returned to Morristown under the cover of night just as Ben, and the rest of the remaining army arrived at the town. She had rode into the camp on her own personal robotic horse, which had been almost mistaken for a real horse by some of the men until they realized that the horse's eyes were unnaturally red. She had also brought the personal steeds of Brewster and Natalie, though she claimed that in her eagerness and haste to return to Morristown, she had not 'charged' the beasts and thus they remained 'packed' away.

Haste was not exactly the word Ben would have chosen when he found out just how _fast_ the robotic horses that his counterpart had rode into battle, galloped. What had taken nearly half a month's march only took about _six hours_ for the small seven-man heavy cavalry unit, and that was coming from Setauket. He had never seen anything go so fast, though he was sure that from the tales Caleb told of his whaling days, his friend might have seen creatures of the sea swim that fast.

He had a suspicion that the speed the heavy cavalry unit displayed during the battle was only for show and to not frighten the men to death – not that their burnished dark metal armors were already menacing enough to terrify a man into continuous prayer. Samantha had kindly explained in terms that he could somewhat understand, as to what governed the swiftness of the robotic horses.

The beasts were completely false and made by man's hands on what was known as mechanical machines. They were made to look similar to actual horses so to allow their riders to blend in with the animals if they were to be used as scouts or ambushing. However, the liquid armor – to which the actual name of the armor was told to him but he could not remember it – that both man and beast wore while in battle was designed to give full protection when engaging in a frontal assault, such as the one displayed at Brandywine. Both the armor, along with the relative swiftness of how a robotic horse performed during battle was determined by how much energy had been stored within the beast. When not in use for an extensive amount of time, the horses were 'packed' away in perfectly square cubes that sat no larger than the palm of his hand. Samantha had also further explained and simplified it to the fact that it was similar to how rested and fed the horses were before a battle, except that these robotic horses had a longer period of time that they were able to function before faltering.

Of course, the beasts were not 'fed' grass or any food of the sort, and gathered their energy via standing still and folding out a contraption that captured energy from the sun. Ben could barely believe that the future held such wonder – it sounded almost fantastical that he had to pinch himself to ensure that he was still awake. However, after Samantha had seen him perform that particular action, the explanations about the robotic horses and how they functioned had stopped.

Now though, three unnatural-looking beasts, two horses and one donkey, were tied up in a hastily erected tent next to Sackett's enormous barn of oddities. They were mostly hidden away from curious eyes, but occasionally allowed out at dawn to gather their energies in a far away field before being brought back to camp after dusk.

Ben blinked as he found himself still awake at this cool hour of the night, unable to sleep since he had sunk into the cot after a full day's worth of work on compiling the latest scouting and intelligence reports, and creating the new codebook. Judging by how low the moon currently was in the sky through the small slit in his tent's entrance, he estimated that there was only two or three hours before sunrise. His mind, full of thoughts and worry about not only his commander, but also of the future-people, of the reports that he had read over so far, and of what was to happen, was not resting.

Rolling over and off of his cot as he flung the scratchy woolen horse blanket to the side, he opened the flaps of his tent slightly to allow more of the waning moonlight in. Grabbing the candlestick that had been precariously perched on the holder in his desk, he stepped out and headed to the nearest campfire that was still burning. Lighting the candle, he returned to his tent and placed it back in the holder. Sitting down at his desk, he opened the skinny, rectangular leather-bound book and turned to the page where he had left off. Biting the tip of his quill and sucking it gently to allow whatever ink had dried on it to be loosened, he stared at the half-written upon page.

The new codebook maintained most of the same type of encryption except that he added two more layers of encryption upon it, totaling three layers. The first layer was to translate certain words into atypical Latin words that an acquaintance of his within the camp who had been studying law had told him about. He was certain that Abe would have more than likely studied those same words while at Kings College. The second layer was to transpose letters around to create different words – not gibberish – but actual words to deceive any persons who intercepted the letter. Both Sackett and his descendant had advised that gibberish created by alphabet transposition was easier to decrypt than actual words. The final layer was scrambling the entire thing into the numerical code designation that had been introduced in the first codebook. He knew that Abe would more than likely be quite annoyed at it, but with everything that had happened, he needed to be absolutely sure that his agents were protected as best as possible. It added time to both ends of the encryption-decryption process, but he thought it was worth it.

For a while he worked, filling the pages of the codebook until the thundering of hooves on the ground riding into the camp caught his attention. The whinny of a horse near the house caused him to place his quill down and get up to see why a courier was causing such a ruckus at the house. He peeked outside and saw the faint illumination of the door to the house being opened by someone, before the person accepted a rather hefty amount of messages. A few moments later, he saw the courier hurry back to his horse and rode off. No one approached the camp as the door shut and he ducked back into his tent. There seemed to be no alarm within and so he returned to his desk. Perhaps the messenger was just late with delivery – he would check in the morning.

~~~

“Letter for you, Tallmadge,” Sackett said, holding up a folded parchment that had not been broken from its seal as Ben entered his mentor's office. “Came early this morning via courier and seemed to have been wedged in between Generals Scott and Sullivan's correspondences. It was rescued before the former could lay his rather obstinate fingers on it.”

Ben frowned slightly as he glanced back towards the hall, wondering if Sackett should have said that out loud. General Scott was among those who had returned to Morristown and was quartered in one of the many rooms upstairs. While he had no direct quarrel with his former commander, it seemed that neither Sackett nor Scott had put aside their differences since that day of Washington's spy ring request. However, he was much too polite to ask how either of them had managed to survive thus far under the same roof.

“Thank you,” he answered, taking the letter but did not step back. “I also have a copy of the codebook ready for review. Not all of the words have yet to be listed, but it is mostly ready for draft perusal.” Extending his hand out with the leather-bound notebook in it, he saw Sackett turn towards him with a rather delighted smile on his face before the man plucked the notebook from his hand.

“Stay and listen,” Sackett said, turning back to his desk before gesturing with a wave of his hand, “and also, that handwriting on the letter is quite familiar to me, for it looks similar to General Greene's writing. Open it, and we'll see what the Governor-General of Philadelphia wants.”

Just as Ben unsealed the letter, he heard footsteps coming down the stairs and approaching the back of the house. He heard the murmurs of high voices floating down the hall and moments later, the bright-eyed and fresh faces of Samantha and Natalie appeared. Stepping to the side, he murmured a 'good morning' to both women, and while Natalie answered the same, Samantha had shortened hers to just a 'mornin' before covering a yawn.

While the soft chatter of the women, mainly about the battle readiness of Samantha's horse and Natalie's donkey – to which he had discovered that though Natalie was terrified of horses, she managed to overcome her fear enough to ride a robotic donkey – floated past his ears, it was the slow flipping of pages and the occasional non-committal agreement issuing from Sackett's lips that he paid attention to. Opening the letter in hand, he scanned through it until he got to the signature – Sackett was correct; the letter had been written by General Greene.

Frowning just a little more, for he was not entirely sure that he had understood the intent of the letter, he re-read it again. “Tallmadge,” Natalie's sharp voice brought him out of his reverie as he looked up. “You look like my donkey ate your canary.”

“Oh, so that's where my pet bird went,” Samantha quipped, though Ben understood that Natalie's statement, however unconventional, was directed at him.

There was no sense in him keeping the contents of the letter from anyone in this room, for they were all working together towards the same goal, and so he said, “General Greene has kindly extended an invitation for my presence in Philadelphia at the Governor-General's ball.”

“Ah, a chance to engage with the influential and those of Philadelphia's high society ladies and gentlemen,” Sackett said, a wide smile appearing on his face. “I wouldn't miss it, if I were you.”

“Schmoozing with the upper crust of society?” Samantha said, as equally happy-looking as Sackett was. “That's so awesome! It's just like that summer in the Hamptons again!”

“But, Mr. Sackett--” he began, not even bothering to try to ask Samantha to clarify her words. He didn't need to, for her tone in her words made her intent just as clear – she, like Sackett was urging him to go.

“Nonsense, Tallmadge,” Sackett said, getting up and strolling over to a cabinet. Opening it, Ben watched him rifle through a few things as the man continued to say, “This gives us the perfect opportunity to start ties within Philadelphia, to cultivate potential agents in the region. You're the perfect ambassador for the duty.”

“Sir,” he attempted to protest again, though he knew that whatever excuses he had were bound to be quite feeble in front of Sackett.

“Ah,” Sackett exclaimed, holding up a small, empty inkwell. “And that also means you will need to bring a guest.”

“A wha—why?”

Sackett looked up with the most curious of expressions, as if expecting Ben to know the answer and had asked a very ridiculous question. “Have you ever been invited to such a gathering at his, Tallmadge? Surely attending Yale afforded you some of societal life's luxuries?”

“Erm...no,” he truthfully answered. “My time at Yale, was... how shall I say it... devoted to other types of extracurricular activities.”

“Nathaniel,” Natalie stepped in, her tone slightly admonishing. “Please don't be so harsh to judge. Life does not afford us too many liberties. There is a first time for everything, and let us work with that now.”

The indecipherable look that Sackett gave his descendant was much too quick for Ben to follow, but after a moment, his mentor shook his head slightly before taking his seat again. “Fine. You will still have to bring a guest with you, Tallmadge, because as a guest of Greene, to arrive alone is somewhat frowned upon in these types of situation, especially since Philadelphia has long been a Patriot city. Since it seems that Samantha here has experienced this sort of soiree, as we shall call it, she will go with you – as your sister.”

“Sweet!” Samantha exclaimed. “Do I get a nifty gown or something?”

“Nifty, no,” Ben heard Sackett answer, but as his mentor continued to explain what Samantha would be wearing, he caught Natalie's eyes and tried to convey an apology to her via his own eyes. He had wanted Natalie to accompany him, but he could not protest Sackett's choice without skirting details that he did not want to get into. No one outside of himself, Natalie, and Sackett who was their mediator needed to know about certain correspondences. He also suspected that Sackett did not want Natalie to go with him, but for reasons unknown – and he was not about to pry and potentially ruin his mentorship.

“When is this soiree?”

He glanced down at the letter before answering, “In three nights.”

Sackett made a humming noise before saying, “That does not leave us much time... and we'll have to send both of you there with at least a day to spare so that you will have time to freshen up and prepare yourselves. It will also have to be by carriage... for by horseback is quite uncouth in statures such as these.”

“Rachmanioff has the pull capability without sacrificing speed, sir,” Samantha volunteered.

“Rachmanioff?” Ben questioned.

“Yep, my robotic horse. Named after my favorite pianist composer. He's a bit temperamental and all, but with a carriage behind him, he can still reach sixty miles per hour. It should take us about two to three hours, due to terrain, but we'll be able to leave here with plenty of time to spare.”

“Sam, I don't think carriages built in this day and age will be able to withstand that speed. I think you'll be limited to about twenty miles per hour,” Natalie spoke up. “It will take about seven to eight hours.”

“Regardless, we still do not have much time to prepare,” Sackett stated. “Now, I need both of you, Natalie and Samantha, to go into Elizabethtown – take your horse and donkey for we most certainly do not have time to waste – and to that tailor where we brought your dresses. I'll have some coin and instructions for you to give to the tailor, but we'll have to make do with what he can give us. As for you, Tallmadge, sit. The assessment of your new codebook will have to wait, for I hope to impart at least some knowledge to save yourself from any sort of embarrassment when you attend this soiree.”

“Yes, sir,” he said.

* * *

_Three nights later, Philadelphia..._

 

Ben normally felt quite comfortable in his uniform, but whether or not it was the slight nervousness that he felt in his stomach, or the fact that his entire outfit, including in jacket had been taken to a hot plate prior to being packed away to ensure as much smoothness as possible, he found himself fidgeting slightly. Sackett's last-minute lessons were about to be put to the test.

A soft pat on his arm had him glancing over towards Samantha, who was wearing a beautiful silk gown, cut in a similar fashion that he had seen other women at this soiree wear. However, whereas many of the other women wore gowns in pale colors, Samantha's gown was in nearly the same hue as his own uniform jacket. Her hair had been done up in a simple yet elegant coif.

Upon their entrance into the foyer of the mansion of one Judge Edward Shippen, Ben had clearly noticed that many of the officers and other societal guests lingering in and around the area had took notice of Samantha. She had reacted to the attention by demurring with as much shy grace as possible, though the two of them were quickly saved by the appearance of General Greene.

“Ah, Major,” Greene said, smiling as Ben felt Samantha unlink their arms before he clasped hands with him. Shaking it slightly before letting go, the man continued to say, “I'm glad you've received my invitation. Wasn't sure if the courier was going to be fast enough to get to Morristown.”

“Thank you for the generous invitation. It's a honor to be here, sir,” he answered as he stepped slightly to the side to allow Greene to pay his respects to Samantha. “This is Samantha, my sister,” he said, deciding that it was better not to mention the fact that she had been present at Brandywine. He wasn't sure if Greene even knew that she had been the scout to call for reinforcements to Greene's position.

“Miss Tallmadge,” Greene said, picking up her right hand and bending down slightly to press his lips against the back of her hand. “It is a pleasure to have such an exquisite beauty gracing Philadelphia tonight.”

Ben could not help but smile as he saw Samantha blush, clearly not used to such words as she merely nodded, and murmured, “Thank you, sir.”

“Now, if you'll pardon my haste, there are a few people that I would like you to meet, Major, that are of interest,” Greene said. “Of course, Miss Tallmadge, you are also welcome to accompany us, though should your interests tend more towards delicate conversations, perhaps you may find some interest in the north drawing room.”

“It would be my pleasure to listen to the tales,” Samantha answered. “My brother has been much too modest in his description of what he has accomplished. I shall enjoy listening to a much better account.”

“Wonderful!” Greene said, guiding Ben towards the first room on their left, where there were quite a few officers, with clarets in their hands, sipping away while carrying on low conversations. There were a couple of older ladies of society sitting within the room, but Ben had spotted Washington standing near the lit fireplace, conversing with a rather heavyset man dressed in finery that he had not thought possible, given the number of British ships that blockaded the coast. There was also another man standing next to the heavyset man, dressed in much less elaborate clothing, but still enough to mark him as one of refined tastes.

“Judge Shippen,” Greene said, as his voice caused both Washington and the man to turn. “General Washington. Mr. Falsworth.”

“Sir,” Ben immediately greeted his commander, while out of the corner of his eyes he saw Samantha dip slightly to the ground in greeting. He wasn't sure if it was a trick of the numerous candlelight that dotted the room, but he thought he saw his commander crinkle his eyes slightly in amusement.

“Judge Shippen and Mr. Falsworth, if I may introduce a true hero of Brandywine, Major Benjamin Tallmadge of the 2nd Continental Light Dragoons. It was he who charged into British lines with the cavalry portion of his unit to help halt their advance at Chadd's Ford.” Greene turned slightly, continuing to say, “And this lovely young lady here is Major Tallmadge's sister, Samantha. Major, and Miss Tallmadge, if I may introduce you to our gracious host, Judge Edward Shippen. The gentleman next to him is Montague Falsworth of the Kennedy Trading Company.”

“Honored,” he said as proper introductions were made between him, Samantha, and the two gentlemen.

As soon as that was completed, it was Falsworth who spoke first, saying, “Generals Washington and Greene here were just telling us of the unfolding events at Brandywine. Such persistence, these British soldiers. Tell me, Major, did the British really start faltering when you and...how many men was it? Charged into their lines?”

Ben hesitated for a moment as he tried to compose an answer, but managed to push past the hesitation, saying, “It took two charges to start folding their lines, sir.” As an addendum, he said, “We also had help...” he glanced towards Greene and Washington, the latter whom showed absolutely nothing on his expression except for polite interest, while Greene was smiling. However, that particular smile on the general's face seemed to be on edge. “We also had help after the initial charge, from General Greene here, as he rallied the men back into lines,” he continued. “And there were fourteen men in total in the charge.” Though he had the feeling that mentioning the so-called 'Devil Cavalry' would not be the best thing to do, he would be damned if he did not give some credit to his counterpart in the battle.

“Marvelous,” Falsworth said, smiling just slightly too wide for Ben's liking. “Absolutely marvelous.”

He didn't know why, but something about the trader seemed a little off-putting. Though still young enough to not bother with a powdered wig just yet, the trader's face seemed slightly crooked to the point where Ben thought that the man might have dislocated his jawbone earlier in life. However, it was not just that, but also the eyes of the trader – a little too disconcertingly pale of a green-blue color to allow him to directly look at the trader for long.

But it seemed that that had been Falsworth's only question, for Judge Shippen had a few of his own that included both Greene and Washington into the conversation. Samantha stayed beside him for the duration of the conversation, but as soon as that was completed, and Greene about to whisk the two of them off to meet others, she politely excused herself.

Though Ben had been warned by Natalie to not allow Samantha near food, for she cited Samantha's notoriety back in college to devour quite a lot more food than thought possible during parties, in this environment, he thought she would have enough discretion to not repeat whatever tomfoolery she had engaged in during her own Yale years. As he was continually being introduced to other guests by Greene, he occasionally caught a glimpse of her flitting in and out among the younger crowd of gentlemen. From a distance, he could see that she certainly was lively enough to catch their attention in more ways than one. He briefly wondered just how many letters would be sent her way by the end of the night. However, with that thought, came the utterly strange, swooping feeling of protectiveness – he did not want to see her hurt by untoward advances that she may not have wanted.

After what felt like hours upon no end of talking, shaking hands, with the occasional sip of claret to clear his parched throat, he finally found a moment to breathe and actually enjoy the festivities. He was standing in a corner of the north drawing room; a rather lively area of the soiree but with enough people around to allow him to slip into the corner without being disturbed. His right arm and hand were a bit tired from all the vigorous shaking of hands, and as for meeting people, he remembered all whom he met, but with the whirlwind that Greene had formed, he could not gauge any of the peoples' interest. He knew that eventually, he would have to rejoin the party to hopefully cultivate a contact or two in the region.

“You look absolutely done in, Ben,” Samantha's voice spoke up from next to him as he heard her dress swish to a stop. She too held a claret in her hands, but judging by the rosier look on her cheeks, Ben suspected that it was probably her fourth or fifth one.

“Parties at Yale were certainly not as interesting as this one, but definitely a lot livelier and more relaxed,” he stated, raising his glass slightly before taking a sip.

“Eh,” she said, taking a sip, “this feels just like one of those annoyingly sophisticated parties that Benji's mother threw at their summer home in the Hamptons... except with period dresses. At least the boys are just as bawdy as they were or are in the future.”

“Samantha Tallmadge,” he said, lifting his glass back up for a moment, “Heartbreaker extraordinaire. I picked that up from Brewster.”

She giggled and mirrored his toast. After they both took a sip, she asked, “So, what about you, oh great and mighty Major Tallmadge? Break any hearts yet in this shindig?”

“Shindig?”

“Party, soiree, giant gathering where high society snobs congratulate each other for a verbal job well done. 'Jolly good, and yes, sir, it is most auspicious to have sold that for the price of an arm, leg, and spleen.' Blah, blah, blah...”

He raised an eyebrow at her statement, as he asked, “I take it that this sort of life did not agree with you when you were growing up?”

“Me? I grew up in Westport, Connecticut surrounded by stuff like this. I didn't like it, but I knew that it was a privileged advantage to have, so I took it. It's actually Benji who really hated it. See, most of eastern Long Island became quite a haven for rich folks to settle in, especially in the Hamptons. Benji's idea of rebellion was to immediately apply to Westpoint before his graduation from Phillips Academy. Joining the military was his way of saying 'fuck you' to the wealth that his family flaunted. They had wanted him to go to Yale and pursue a bio-medical engineering degree. Military life was something they thought beneath their status. If only they could have seen or met you... perhaps some of them wouldn't have become classist dickbags.”

“Are they...?”

“Dead?” she supplied. “Yeah. All of them except for Benji and I. The entirety of Long Island was one of the first places Britannia razed after we declared war.”

“I apologize, I shouldn't have asked,” he said.

“Eh, it's all right. I figured that Britannia mostly didn't like the chowda being produced from there. Anyways, so, back to my question, have you broken any hearts yet?” she asked, smiling up at him.

“No,” he answered, shaking his head slightly.

“The night is still young, Ben. There are many lovely ladies here, and you at least have to pay your respects to the daughter of your host, Miss Margaret Shippen,” she said, gesturing to a round table on the other side of the room where three lovely ladies and a man were sitting. They were holding cards and seemed to be observing the entire room and the soiree itself while discussing amongst themselves.

Twice already, since retiring to this particular room, Ben had noticed that one of the young men, not much older or younger than he was, approach the table to ask for the hand of one of the ladies in particular to dance. It had been the same young woman each time, dressed in a pale golden gown with her hair done up in a beautiful style that allowed ringlets to fall as if in a waterfall. Even from the distance he was standing at, he could see that her eyes were incredibly expressive, though there was a very shrewd look in them each time she rejected her would-be suitor.

“I-I think I will be needing yet another claret before paying my respects, preferably a glass that I can enjoy for a while,” he said. There were women, women that he knew who loved to be wooed a certain way, and then there were women similar to Miss Shippen, whom he had encountered in posture likeness only once before while attending Yale. She looked positively bored of such a gathering, for none of the men revolving in and out of the room seemed to interest her. Ben remembered watching Nathan Hale stumble through a rather lovely poem to a woman of similar countenance such as what Miss Shippen displayed – only to be completely and utterly rejected just by her sharp words.

“Ah, too late, Benny-boy,” Samantha teased. “She's noticed that you're looking at her.”

He inwardly groaned to himself, for Samantha's assessment was correct. His eyes had lingered a little too long on Miss Shippen and now she was looking directly at him. Placing what was left of the claret in his glass down on a small end table, he squared his shoulders and muttered, “Wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” Samantha chirped.

As he approached, he was well aware of Miss Shippen's friends' eyes following his every move, as if they were ravens watching a procession for the dead. Deciding that it was better than ignoring them, he gave the other two women a genial smile before returning his attention to the young woman sitting in a dainty yet haughty manner before him. “Miss Shippen,” he greeted, taking her proffered hand, but did not lift it to his lips as he had seen others do. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Major Benjamin Tallmadge, at your service.” He let her hand go and stepped back. “I would ask you to join me in dance, but alas, I know not how to and thus would most definitely refrain from creating an embarrassing spectacle of both you and myself.”

“How...elegantly provincial,” she answered after a moment. “Tell me, Major, of what unit do you serve in, in General Greene's garrison army? I'm quite curious, for you seemed to be the only one of your rank in this soiree that my father is hosting.”

It was a question designed to denigrate him, for he had noticed that all officers attending the party had varying ranks of generalship, though only two other officers were of the colonel rank. He was the lowest ranking officer here, and by rights, was quite an oddity among this gathering. “I serve in General Washington's army,” he politely corrected, “and am currently in command of the 2nd Continental Light Dragoons, Miss Shippen.”

“Ah, so it is true that the cavalry of the 2nd Light led that inspired charge at Chadd's Ford?” the man sitting at her table said.

“Yes,” he answered, but did not elaborate, for he was not sure if the man was a part of the young woman's 'game' of wits.

“Modesty does not become you, Major,” Miss Shippen spoke up. “Perhaps once another victory is at hand, your provincial lifestyle and visage will have withered away and then we can hear of your grandiose exploits.”

“Ah, if only you were by your father's side while I, Generals Washington and Greene were there to hear of Major Tallmadge's heroic deeds in the battlefield,” the surprising voice of trader Montague Falsworth cut in. Ben glanced back, but before he could say a word, Falsworth continued, “Come, Major, there is a certain person of my acquaintance that I want you and your sister to meet.”

“Miss Shippen,” he stated, giving a very brief bow towards her before departing with the trader. He heard Samantha catch up to them, linking her arm around his as they left the room and went back out into the noisier areas of the mansion.

“Ah, Miss Margaret Shippen,” he heard Falsworth conversationally say. “Jewel of Philadelphia yet she has yet to show much interest in any of Philadelphia's creme-de-la-creme of men. You should not have walked in there unprepared, Major. But at least you've come out slightly battered but mostly unscathed.”

“Um, thank you,” he said. “For the rescue, I mean.”

“Yes, and you're very welcome, but it is only because I and General Greene have a few more people who would like to make your acquaintance, so my 'rescue' of you was not entirely unselfish.”

“Yes, then by all means, let us continue,” he said, though he could not help but wonder when the long night was going to end. He was beginning to understand just why his counterpart hated parties such as this.

* * *

_Meanwhile, in New York City..._

 

In a much calmer, more sedate soiree that seemed more like a dinner party than a soiree, the clinking of utensils on porcelain plates, along with the tinkling of glass being refilled with wine filled the air. Anna carefully mimicked the actions of those around her, trying to not only not embarrass herself, but also her escort to this party. Surrounded by not only Loyalists and British soldiers, her actions, such as cutting her portions down to size but not switching the fork to her knife hand after cutting, would mark her as an unrefined colonist. She tried to remember to put down her knife and switch utensils each time she took a bite. If not for the sake of herself, but for the sake of Major Hewlett, who had been the one to invite her to the home of Major John Andre, she tried her hardest to be as polite and refined as possible.

The invitation to this party, along with Hewlett's unexpected invitation in friendship before that had thrown Anna into a tizzy. While she was immensely grateful to the garrison commander for securing her a place to live and work when they had arrived in New York, she had thought it only because of his duty to protect and try to help repair the livelihood all Setauket Loyalists who had departed. Hewlett stayed in the boarding house she worked at, and while she occasionally saw him for morning meal, it was only recently that he had begun to spend more time talking to her as he was taking in his morning meal.

Surprisingly kind, he only inquired after her immediate needs for her work at the boarding house, reassuring her that it was because he felt a sense of duty towards those who departed Setauket. Though he had praised her bravery in leaving her husband, he had not offered her a sympathetic shoulder but rather extended a hand in possible friendship. It was a far different feeling she felt towards him than the uneasy and sometimes frightening feeling she had whenever Simcoe had been around.

As for Simcoe, Anna did not know of his fate, and from what she had heard Hewlett discuss about the captain, it seemed that he had been taken far and away. It was good riddance for both of them, for neither wanted to discuss that particular topic further, and thus it had never been brought up after that first time.

Then came the invitation to Major Andre's dinner party. Though she had only met up with Abe twice since moving to New York, the two of them were able to pass messages to him via Robert Townsend, whom she had learned that Abe was taking to calling him 'Culper Junior'. She had not passed on the fact that she had been invited to this dinner party to Abe, for she knew that it would only cause him to worry more. Knowing that Andre already knew what she looked like because of her actions earlier in the year, she had tried to plead several excuses in her head to abstain from attending. However, none of them sounded good in her head, for while still married but estranged from her husband, to not go when she knew that being in Andre's house again meant a veritable mine of valuable information, was to betray the Patriot cause. She had to go, and thus prayed with all of her might to not let Andre recognize her.

So far, it was working.

“...and the mannerisms of those men,” Hewlett was saying, and Anna realized that he was recounting the 'tale' of just how Setauket was lost.

Pushing her chair back, she knew that the noise and action garnered attention, but she was in no mood to listen to the lies Hewlett was about to spin up about Tallmadge and the soldiers he had with him that particular day. She had heard the 'tale' once before, and it was quite long – it would also give her the opportunity to sneak around the place again. “Pardon me,” she softly stated. “I suddenly do not feel too well.”

“Ah, yes, I apologize for my words, Anna,” Hewlett said, looking slightly flustered. “I should have known that recounting the tale of Setauket's loss would cause some bad memories to return. Please forgive me.”

“Thank you, Major,” she said, remembering his request for her to address him by his rank when in public, but by his given name while in private – which was not very often.

“Nonsense, Hewlett,” an officer across the table spoke up. “Please, we can allow the lovely Mrs. Strong to briefly retire in your sitting, room, shan't we, Andre? That way, we can still be regaled by Hewlett's tale of bravery in the face of adversity.”

“By all means,” Andre answered, giving Anna an encouraging smile. “If it would make you feel better, my sitting room is open for as long as you need it. My servant, Abigail will show you where it is.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, before slowly getting up, just as she saw Abigail approach. Affecting slight dizziness, she grasped onto her former maidservant's arm and slowly made her way out. As they traveled down the hall, she heard footsteps behind her and turned slightly to see Andre's woman approaching. She was the only other person from that dreadful soiree earlier in the year that knew of her face, and from the look in the woman's eyes, Anna knew that she had been caught out.

“It's all right, Abigail,” the woman stated, taking Anna's other arm in a surprisingly gentle manner. “Please, Mrs. Strong. Do not be alarmed and please allow me to escort you to the sitting room. When men start talking about their exploits, it becomes quite terribly uninteresting, thus I felt that you would be better company than them.”

“Thank you,” she said, nodding slightly as she glanced over towards Abigail and gave her a slight nod. There was no going to explore now, at least not at the moment. She would have to somehow get rid of this woman before her opportunity ran out.

“Philomena,” the woman supplied. “Please, call me Philomena.”

“Anna, then,” she replied in kind as they made their way to the room. Sitting down on the cushioned long seats with hard backs, Anna leaned back slightly, affecting tiredness as she briefly closed her eyes. With Abigail's footsteps fading away, and the sounds of Philomena rearranging her dress to get more comfortable in the long seat she also occupied, Anna finally opened her eyes again... only to find that Philomena was giving her a very pointed look.

“Who are you?” she questioned, her tone unkind but not threatening in any manner.

“Anna Strong,” she answered, though her initial puzzlement was slowly turning into a cold feeling in her stomach.

“Who are you, really?” the woman asked again. “You were here, earlier in the year, dressed in a pale rose-colored dress and a part of the entertainment of flowers Major Andre ordered for his soiree. So, who are you?”

Keeping as best of a composure as possible, she lifted her chin slightly, saying, “I do not know what you are implying, Miss Philomena, and I quite do not appreciate the aspersions you have cast upon me. I have never been in this house before, and given Major Hewlett's status within the British forces, I am sure he would be able to successfully lodge a complaint against Major Andre for being such an ungracious host.”

“Try as he might,” Philomena answered with equal certainty, “I know for certain that it is only by the grace of Major Andre that your Major Hewlett still retains his rank and commission. So before I leave to inform the Major of your treachery, who are you?”

Anna took in a deep breath as she held her gaze level with the woman. “I am Hewlett's agent, functioning in the same capacity as you,” she said, keeping her voice as steady as possible. “Earlier in the year, I was sent to New York because Hewlett was concerned that someone had potentially infiltrated Andre's confidence. I had not known back then that you served in the same capacity as I do, but now that I understand, I see that Hewlett's concern was not merited and should have been concentrated upon in Setauket.”

It was all a wild guess, for she didn't even know if Andre and Hewlett knew of each other, other than passing social circles, but upon Philomena's revelation that Hewlett only held his post because of Andre, it made sense as she spun her story. However, she now looked at Andre's woman with closer eyes – she was dangerous, and if she did not believe her, then Anna would have to ready herself for the fate she knew that awaited her. There was no one close enough here that she could count upon for help. Abe was most likely at home, tending to his family, and Townsend and his ilk were most likely monitoring the streets around the boarding house.

“I see,” Philomena said, before nodding in acceptance.

* * *

_Later that night, still in New York City..._

 

“She claims to be Hewlett's agent,” she whispered into his ear, her voice sleepy but quite relaxed.

“Hmm, who?” John Andre asked as he felt her shift slightly, further pressing her body against his as they settled to sleep.

“Mrs. Anna Strong,” his beautiful, golden-haired agent continued to say. “I wasn't aware that Hewlett had agents.”

He felt the edges of his lips curl up in a smile as he heard her breathe deeply against him, settling down for the night. “No, my dear,” he whispered listening to her slowly fall asleep. “I wasn't aware either.”

There was no response from her other than her even breaths against his skin, and he didn't expect any. Though sleepiness tugged at him, he could not help but mull over Philomena's words. He and Hewlett had certainly been in correspondence even well before the arrival of Britannian forces, but because of his counterpart, Director Andre, he knew of Anna Strong. He knew her true allegiance, and he had been quite surprised at her appearance earlier in the night.

He considered keeping Hewlett in the dark about Anna Strong's true allegiance, and for now that was what he was going to do, for he saw this as an opportunity to begin carrying out the orders from his counterpart. If he could turn Mrs. Strong to a double agent or possibly fully turn her into a British agent, then it would be much easier to turn Abe Woodhull.

As for the farmer, John had received a tip off from a discreet patrolman of Woodhull taking an interest in wells around the city. He had attempted to inform his counterpart of the situation, but had instead found out from Deputy Director Simcoe that his counterpart was currently in Philadelphia, carrying out a recruitment mission. When he had inquired about the nature of the mission, he had been informed that the Director was traveling under the name of Montague Falsworth, yet another play on the Captain Falsworth alias the Director had used during the Setauket incident. However, the recruitment of an agent within Philadelphia had been surprising to John. Far be it that it was some fop of a rich landowner who supported the Patriot cause in name only – it was the Magistrate of Philadelphia's daughter, Margaret 'Peggy' Shippen.

He only knew little about the young Miss Shippen, but he had been informed that she was instrumental in the downfall of one of Washington's most trusted generals. After that brief statement, he had been ushered out of the underground, but not before catching a glimpse of Simcoe's counterpart being put through quite an extensive training to utilize future weaponry. Whatever use the Britannian people had for Captain Simcoe was not his concern, for though he had wanted the man to become the new leader of the Queen's Rangers – especially with Robert Rogers still missing and now presumed dead – his request had been refused.

Shaking his head slightly, he cleared his thoughts about those underground. Perhaps, with the right application of certain pressures, he would be able to convince Anna Strong to 'work' for him. After all, he knew that she would not be able to resist yet another attempt in trying to gather information for her Patriot cause. He would be there, to 'train' her for her false allegiance to Hewlett, all the while feeding and planting false information for her to carry back to Washington.

But first, he needed Abigail to deliver his letter of introduction to her former mistress.

* * *

_October, 1777_

 

Ben originally thought the future-people and the weapons they had were a blessing in disguise. Now, he was starting to regret several aspects of what they had brought to the war...

Under the command of General Scott, a rather sizable army was sent towards Saratoga to winter, allowing for room to be made for those injured and recalled from the fort. Saratoga had come under siege only a day after the Morristown expedition had arrived, and in the midst of a fierce almost unyielding fight, General Gates had ordered a complete withdrawal. Refusing the order, General Arnold managed to rally the men and turned the advancing British-Britannian forces into a full route. However, even with twenty advanced rifles – twenty-one if Brewster was to be among those who fought – the losses suffered at Saratoga were far too great. Most had been killed not by musket ball, but by Britannian forces.

Among those returning were Caleb and his descendant, the former whom Ben had asked Washington to recall, for he needed his courier, and the latter whom Washington had recalled without request. The other nineteen marksmen were to winter at Albany with the rest of the 2nd Continental Light Dragoons to ensure that no enemy forces attempted to try to take Saratoga.

Ben's counterpart had also paid a visit to Morristown in the days following Washington's return from Philadelphia. He had been present in the private meeting between him, his counterpart, and Washington and had heard his counterpart's concerns about possibly searching for more Army units possibly stuck in this era to counter the growing threat of British-Britannian integrated armies. However, that would've required his counterpart to drain eastern Long Island of its defenses to range far and wide throughout the entire thirteen colonies. Because of the great loss sustained at Saratoga, the need to garrison Philadelphia with a strong force, and other skirmishes that were currently being waged across all colonies, the Continental Army did not have the people to even stretch a thin garrison around eastern Long Island.

Ben saw the understanding in his counterpart's eyes, before his counterpart had 'volunteered' a possible solution to the problem: allow him to take Robert Rogers and the two other Queen's Rangers into custody. When questioned by Washington as to the reason why, his counterpart had given a surprising answer – his counterpart wanted to turn all of the Queen's Rangers towards freedom's cause and to do that, he needed Rogers and the other two Rangers. Washington had not agreed to the release of Rogers and his ilk, but astonishingly, had said that he would consider it.

But that was the least of Ben's worries, for word of Saratoga and what had happened was compounding and expanding the wild rumors and tales being told of Brandywine. Pamphlets decrying Washington as not only a leader but also of blasphemy against God in enlisting the help of demons, were spreading across the camp. The more Ben heard about it, the more he became incensed, for friendly trade caravans passing through Morristown had most likely introduced the anonymously written piece into the camp. The pamphlets had been circulating around the camp for more than a few days, and he was sure that Washington had heard of what had been written upon it.

Five days now, and his general had not taken any action nor acknowledged the pamphlets and their incendiary words. Five days and in those days he had heard even more seditious rumors of Generals Gates and Lee having both written to Congress when Washington had just thoroughly briefed Congress. He didn't know what Congress' reaction was to what was told of Brandywine, but he knew that both generals were rumored to call for Washington's resignation. And still, Washington had not acknowledged it – Ben had enough.

It was a cool and clear mid-afternoon day when Ben snatched a copy of the pamphlet that had been lying on a rock near a campfire and marched over to the house. Temptation to just throw the damnable piece of writing into the campfires he passed filled him, but he held himself in check. Giving a nod of acknowledgment to the two guards, he entered the house and in his anger and frustration, he shut the door behind him a little too loudly. It caused Hickey who was near the foyer's grandfather clock to jump slightly.

Apologetic, but not enough to cool his temper, he made his way down the hall and entered the main drawing room. Washington was sitting behind his desk, with multiple stacks of correspondence and reports obscuring all but a small area for him to write his responses and thoughts. There were quite a few more stacks of similar height along the table that contained maps of the regions. Surprisingly, in the corner of the room was Sackett, busily scratching away on a piece of parchment and had not even raised his head up as soon as Ben had entered; however Washington did.

“The Thoughts Of A Free Man,” he began without preamble, putting forward the pamphlet that was in his hands so that his commander could see it. Sackett was the espionage adviser, and thus Ben paid him no heed – the man must have also heard the rumors. “This is an anonymous attack on your leadership and it's been circulating in camp! Look, it begins--” he took a breath to continue his earnest pleading as he saw no sign of acceptance in Washington's rather stoic expression. “It begins by stating that you have been possessed by malevolence to summon such hideous creatures to help at Brandywine, the supposedly ill-conceived action taken to protect Saratoga, and concludes with calling for your exorcism and exile!”

Frustration continued to pour out of him as his commander still did not react, and he continued to say, “Sir, it compares you to the Devil himself. A son of Satan, it calls you.” He dropped the pamphlet on his commander's desk, hoping that that action would cause his commander to pick it up and at least look at it. “There are rumors that Generals Gates and Lee have both written to Congress to have you removed as Commander-in-Chief.”

And still, there was a moment of uncomfortable silence that stretched between them, to which Ben became well aware that Sackett's quill had stopped scratching and that soft footsteps had entered from an adjacent room. He did not need to look past Washington to know that Natalie had entered, no doubt hearing his rather raised voice issuing from the main drawing room. He meant not to sound discourteous, especially in the presence of a woman, but he had not known that she was present in the adjacent room. It was much too late to pull his words or tone back.

“I requested an intelligence report on the movements of the enemy and _you_ come to me with rumor,” Washington calmly stated, catching Ben's attention again.

Puzzled, for he thought it was his duty to report anything with respect to intelligence, including threats against his general's leadership, he said, “Sir, I see myself as your eyes and ears against all threat to your leadership.”

“And what do you see or hear of Britannian forces who managed to reinforce their counterparts in Saratoga? What of those in Valley Forge? What of those who escaped Brandywine? Where exactly are they? Have they returned to New York City? Have they disappeared into the wilderness? What of General Howe, the Hessians, and his remaining forces?” Washington relentlessly questioned, though Ben could hear an edge to his commander's tone.

“But-but sir, Saratoga--”

“New York then,” Washington calmly interrupted, quietly standing up as Ben found himself pinned with a very disapproving look from him. Shame flooded him as he knew that excuses were not what he was supposed to provide. His duty was to provide his commander with army movement, numbers, anything that gave insight into the enemy – not baseless rumors and fear mongering written by an anonymous party.

“You've have had sufficient time to communicate with Mr. Culper inside that city. Advice from whom shall prove critical should we take it,” Washington continued in his harshly soft, calm tone. Ben finally found the courage to look back up and saw his commander step out from his desk. Following him with his eyes as he saw Washington walk towards the window next to where the drawing room connected to the room that Natalie had entered from, he heard his commander say, “What is the status of their defense? I depend on you to enlighten us. What word from Mr. Culper?”

“Well,” he began, trying to find the right words, “it's...uh, still too dangerous to contact him.” He mentally winced at his poor excuse, but it was the truth. Caleb had only delivered the completed new codebook to the new dead drop two days ago. He didn't even know if Abe had retrieved it yet and with the loss at Philadelphia and at Saratoga, Caleb had stated that British patrols around the area that surrounded the city had been greatly increased. The British knew that the Continental Army wanted back in to New York...the problem was, how many were garrisoned there, and just how many were disguised Britannian forces.

He saw a deep frown appear on Washington's expression and felt despair start to claw at him. “For the sake of efficiency and of what we faced, I allowed you to merge both rings and take control of it,” Washington stated. “You shall engage Culper and produce a detailed report within the week--” the general turned from staring out of the window “--or recommend to me, a new Head of Intelligence.”

Ben found himself unable to meet the cool, indifferent expression on his commander's face. Humiliation gnawed at him as he found himself nodding slightly and said, “Yes-yes, sir. M-my courier is in camp as we speak and will be ready to set sail tonight.”

Waiting not a moment later, he left and quickly exited the house. The waning sunlight hit his face, causing him to squint for a moment before he stopped, halfway between the house and the start of the camp. Releasing the held breath that he hadn't known that he had been holding, he shook his head slightly as he took a few deep breaths to calm himself and to focus his mind on the task. He set off towards the east end of the camp, where he knew that what remained of the 2nd Continentals who had participated in the Brandywine campaign were camped. He was sure to find Caleb there...

And he wasn't disappointed as he saw Caleb sitting on top of a cask, shouting, “Right here you! Right here! Come on!” His friend banged the flat of the barrel, while continuing to goad the Indian who had been a part of Rogers's three-man group of Rangers. “Right in my lily white nutsacks! Come on you savage, make your people proud! Right here! Come on!”

Deciding not to intervene, since it seemed that there were a few guards standing around the Indian, and feeling oddly relieved to see such insanity from his friend, Ben stood near the back of the crowd that had been gathered. Samantha and Brewster were sitting on other barrels near the spectacle, in their soldier disguises, though neither had any coverings for their heads on. They were laughing with the 2nd Continentals and a few other men from different units, and had not seemed to notice him. He saw the Indian ready a familiar-looking tomahawk before throwing it. It thunked into the flat of the barrel, right in between where Caleb had been sitting. With a whoop, Caleb then yanked the tomahawk out before flipping it around to smash the back end of it against the barrel, widening the hole slightly.

Ale started to flow out of the tomahawk-made hole as he heard his friend shout, “Drinks on me, fellas!”

Ben saw him stroll over towards the Indian, talking in low, hushed tones to him. In fact, there seemed to be a wagon full of supplies and a lot more barrels of ale than he thought the Quartermaster General would have allowed to be requisitioned, even in as big of a camp as this one. While the others were occupied by the free-flowing cask of ale, as soon as he saw an opening, he clapped his hands on Caleb's shoulders, saying, “I assume that you've put in the proper request for all these supplies?”

Caleb turned, grinning as he said, “Request? No... no these are my gifts to the cause.”

So that explained the reason why the ale was flowing so freely and not being rationed into intervals. “Ah,” he answered. “I see. The black market then.” It was mostly a good day whenever Caleb managed to snag something from the smugglers, for with his knowledge of how that particular 'trade' worked, it had proved quite useful at times. It also explained why exactly Caleb had taken a long river route back to Morristown after dropping off the new codebook for Abe, rather than the usual land and ferry crossing route.

“Yeah,” Caleb said, wandering over to the cask and cupped his hands to fill it and take a drink from it. Wiping his hands on his clothes, he smirked up at him, saying, “You don't say.”

Ben knew that tone, and that was as close to admonishment as he would get with Caleb – he technically was not supposed to even mention out loud of the possibility where Caleb had acquired his 'goods'. However, he pushed that to the side as he said, “Well, I don't suppose you'd be willing to get the itch to make another trade tonight, say in that nice little _hollow_ cove, would you? Visit an old friend?”

The grin on Caleb's face fell for a moment before Ben saw a different expression, still pleasant if one took a quick look, but to him was most certainly not as his friend said, “Naaaah, not tonight.”

Taken aback at the refusal, for he thought that his friend was always up for an adventure and took numerous risks thus far, he frowned. “I-I'm afraid that this is not a request, Caleb, it's an order.”

“An order?” Caleb asked, just as he was about to take a bite out of what looked like fresh cheese. It was not the half-molded cheese that was distributed for their rations – it was actual freshly made and set cheese.

“That's right...” he began.

“Christ on a pony Ben,” Caleb said, setting the wedge back down and picked up a tiny barrel that had a piece of cork in the center of it. “I just got back from there with just enough luck so the damn redcoats didn't see me. Culper probably hasn't even gotten a chance to even pick it up and look through it and now you want me to go back there and _contact_ him?! I think I'm done.”

“Wait what?” Ben asked, baffled. “Done?”

“Yeah.”

“Done with orders?” he clarified, still in disbelief at what he was hearing.

“Orders, Culper, army, those crazy future-stuff,” Caleb began before giving the tiny barrel in his hand a small shake. “This here...whale oil. Brought off a fat Tory skip in New Haven and resold for twelve pounds at the cove near Nyack...this is the coin and with proper demand, can make a man think about quitting the army and applying to Congress for a license to privateer.”

Ben saw him uncork the small barrel before pouring a small dollop of it on a piece of cloth. Taking the oil-covered cloth, he saw him rub it into the tomahawk. “That way,” Caleb continued, “I can harass his Majesty's loyal subjects at my pleasure and uh, make a bit of coin on the side.” As Caleb finished greasing the tomahawk and went over to the campfire, he said, “And the best part? The best part is what I'm risking, is me. Not those poor sods up at Saratoga, not my descendant – bless her soul for saving our asses back there, not anyone else.”

The tomahawk was lit on fire.

Realizing that his friend was quite serious, even more so than he had ever been, Ben quickly said, “Look Caleb, it's not my order, it's Washington's.”

That seemed to be the wrong words to say to him as he watched Caleb sweep the lit tomahawk back and forth in a seemingly hypnotic manner. “Oh, Washington,” Caleb said, “well, you're just going to tell him that you're following protocol. See, Culper doesn't signal unless it's safe, and he hasn't even signaled that he got the book. So it ain't safe--”

“Caleb--”

The tomahawk abruptly flew from Caleb's hands and into the bark of the tree, startling a few of the men near by, including Brewster and Samantha. “Oy, I'm listening Ben,” Caleb angrily said. “I'm listening like I should have listened before. Like when you ordered Simcoe to live. I should have listened to reason and put my hatchet in his head. But I didn't, and now that bastard is freely roaming somewhere in British-occupied territories while my uncle is still missing! He probably already died by that lying shite's hands even before we attempted that rescue! And that's on me.” Ben felt a rather sharp poke in his chest as his friend pulled his fingers back from the gesture, saying, “You want to get Abe killed? That's on you.”

As Caleb walked off, Ben did not try to stop him and merely stared at his friend's back, dwindling as he saw him make his way deeper into the camp. The swirl of emotional frustration, annoyance, anger, and embarrassment continued to gnawed at him, and rather than stay, for now that the ales were flowing quite freely, he left. Roughly making his way back to his tent, he did not even deign to issue more than a curt apology to those he pushed past.

As soon as he entered, he cast about for a candle before finding a fresh one that had been left under the blankets in a corner of his cot. Heading back out, he lit it at the nearest campfire before bringing it back and placed it into the holder on his desk. Sitting down, he stared at the two tall piles of reports sitting on his desk. Even with the rotation and deployment of several high ranking officers, those returning were also of equal rank and thus had been afforded the extra rooms in the house. It was why he remained tented among the camp.

The three women shared one of the rooms in the house, but he was well aware that Brewster had chosen to forgo the comforts of a warm house and chose to make her bed among the tents. She was careful, though, to not announce her presence among the men. And that was one of the many problems that continually frustrated him. He was now in control or was for the remainder of the week, of two disparate groups of spies. Hesitation in using the three women and their wealth of abilities and knowledge gripped him. He could not push away the notion that women in general were not to be subjected to the horrors of war, but yet he continually called himself a hypocrite for allowing Anna to assist Abe in New York.

He could see it in their eyes, their need and want to help in any way possible, but Caleb's words echoed in his mind. If he put them in danger, as he had asked Caleb to do to Abe so that Washington's appeasement could be fulfilled, it was on him. It was always on him, no matter what actions either of the spy rings took. He knew that his friend was right about Simcoe – the man could have already killed the four even without an order from the more honorable Major Hewlett – he wouldn't have put it past Simcoe to do such a thing.

“May I enter?”

Looking up, he realized that he was quite close to knocking both stacks of reports off of his desk in pure frustration, and halted his action. Standing at the entrance was Natalie, dressed in her soldier disguise, which happened to be similar to Brewster's own disguise – earthen brown jacket with dark buttons, complete with a white shirt, grey vest, light brown pants, faded grey hosiery, and the most unremarkable-looking boots. Her hair had been tied back into a bun at the nape of her neck, much like he remembered first seeing the style she wore. A rather tattered-looking tricorn sat upon her head, and if he had not known any better, she would have blended completely into any unit with that disguise.

But it was her voice that gave her away, and he knew and understood that it was because he was tented with the others of the army that she did not approach him alone while in a dress. Whether her keeping of their...relationship... secret was for the same reason as as he kept it, he did not know and did not ask. He still had doubts about what exactly he was doing, continuously writing to her while quartered at Ridgefield. This was the first time since his return to Morristown that he had been truly alone with her, and it seemed that fate made it so that they were still 'in public'.

“Please,” he said, gesturing for her to enter as he discreetly removed his other arm away from the stack. There were so many things he wanted to say to her, to express what he could not in letters, but he dared not to. She was in disguise and appearances, as always, must be kept up. Instead, he pushed his frustration aside, hoping that it did not lace into his next words. “How...what can I do for you?”

“Samantha and Carrie are worried about you,” she began, stepping inside, as a humorless smile appeared on his face just as he shook his head slightly. It was quite predictable that those two women would have most likely heard every word that had been exchanged between him and Caleb. However, the next words she said erased that notional thought, as she said, “But they will not interfere in whatever quarrel you have with Caleb. Their concern, along with mine, are your intentions for the merged spy ring.”

“I meant not to raise my voice so loud,” he said, looking up at her as he heard several horses clatter into the heart of the camp – couriers most likely, for there were no shouts of men outside calling for arms.

“It needed to be done, Ben,” she answered, surprising him. “I applaud your courage for confronting it, but your execution of it was ill-conceived and presented.”

“And now he's given me the remainder of this week to rectify what I should have been already bringing him,” he answered. He was surprised at himself for expecting a shoulder of sympathy from her, but he should have known better, for she behaved in a similar manner to her ancestor – she gave no quarter to mistakes made.

Between Caleb's rather harsh assessment of what he thought of Washington's orders and her words, it was refreshingly honest to hear something of that nature. He realized that these past few weeks, no months, he had become too enamored with the romanticism of his duties as Head of Intelligence, too complacent in his dependence on his agents to know what they were doing, too full of himself and of the glory in victory. They had won battles, but they had not yet won the war.

“I don't want you to get hurt, or God forbid, killed, Natalie,” he began as he stood up, “but I need your...I need yours, Samantha, and yes...even Brewster's help.”

He saw a smile, as brilliant as the dawning sun, appear on Natalie's face, as she said, “What would you have us do?”

“If you will pardon my forwardness, your role in this MI6,” he asked, walking around from the desk, thinking of the possibilities that he had dreamt about at times, of what two well-trained agents and one military officer could do. “What exactly did you do besides duties in counter-intelligence?”

“I've had some field experience in infiltration and exfiltration,” she answered. “Not much, but enough to plant false reports and the other subversive materials. Director Andre was training me to eventually become the head of MI6 as he wanted to launch a campaign to become the elected representative to Britannian Parliament. Thus I was required to put in my time for all sorts of work to better understand what those who worked for MI6 were doing. Samantha has had much more experience in the field, as you may have seen during your time in Philadelphia.”

“Yes,” he said, wondering just how colored he was becoming with just the mere mention of the Philadelphia soiree. “And Brewster?”

“I'd rather much like to think that she's behaved in the same fashion as Caleb,” Natalie said, and Ben could not help but laugh. “She and your counterpart were appointed as the intelligence officers within the 2nd Legionnaires before Colonel Sheldon was killed. They were responsible as much as you are now in collecting and analyzing reports of military importance. Since Benji's appointment to commander of the 2nd, that task has fallen solely upon Carrie, though I had been helping her in that endeavor.”

“What of the other two...ah-um--”

“Abigail Woodhull and Andrew Strong?” she asked. He nodded and she continued, saying, “they were much like your two Long Island agents, though in all fairness, Abby was only an analyst and did not much care for field work. She was reluctantly convinced to go into it after the rebellion started.”

“Did the Culpeper Ring have a Mr. Culper Junior?” he asked, thinking back to Abe's short message about the possible recruitment of another agent inside New York.

Before she could answer though, both of them heard footsteps approaching and a moment later, a courier appeared, saying, “Letter for you sir.”

Stepping past Natalie as he reached for it, he was surprised at the quality of parchment that it was written upon, for it felt fine and not as fibrous as all other reports that he had received. As the courier left, he stepped back towards the lone candle, for dusk had already settled and a cool autumn night was already making its way through camp. Holding the waxed side towards the candle, he flipped it over and was startled at the delicate penmanship that governed the address of his name and rank.

“Who...”

“That's a beautiful script,” he heard Natalie say as he glanced over to see her standing next to him, leaning in slightly to see the addressed letter. “Secret admirer?” she teased.

As close as she was to him, closer than they had been since they started correspondence, it was only because of what he held in his hands, along with discretion shouting quite loudly in the back of his mind, that he took no overt courting action towards her. “I don't recall making a great impression at the soiree, rather a terrible one at that,” he muttered, before breaking the seal on the letter and unfolding it.

 _[My dearest Benjamin...]_ the letter began, and he quickly tilted it away from Natalie as he stepped away from her. Quickly reading through the rather playfully intimate yet quite startling missive, he hoped that she had not seen the contents. It read much like a few others he had received from women back when he had been a schoolmaster in Wethersfield, and while he had enjoyed reading such letters, now was different. As soon as he was done reading it, he saw the signature of its bearer, _[Margaret 'Peggy' Shippen]_.

“Peggy Shippen,” Natalie stated, startling him out of his reverie as he looked up to see her smiling slightly as he continued to tilt the letter away from her. “I read the signature before you...” He frowned slightly as she gestured towards the letter before continuing to say, “the most beautiful woman in all of Philadelphia's high society ladies. Samantha told me what happened at that soiree, but it seems that you've made quite an impression.” She held out her hand, “If I may, Ben?”

“I'd rather not,” he answered, folding the letter back up, determined to burn it when he got the chance to. “It's a letter, no more, no less...” he began but noticed that the smile that had been in her eyes had died as she stared pointedly at the folded piece of parchment in his hands. “She's important, isn't she? In this history we're trying to restore or continue?”

“Very much so,” she answered. “Historical fact has stated that she was the single largest influence on General Benedict Arnold's betrayal of the cause. The fact that she has written to you is very puzzling.”

“How?” he asked, quite curious enough to concede to her brief explanation of the certainly beautiful Miss Shippen, and hand over the letter.

She was silent for a few long moments as she unfolded the letter and read through it before bringing it to her nose and sniffing it for a moment. “Interesting scent that she has placed up on this letter. It certainly fits my image of her,” he heard her murmur.

“I prefer lavender,” he quietly said, seeking to reassure her that he had never entertained the idea of courtship with Miss Shippen. He thought he had detected a faint whiff of a more robustly floral, almost rose-like scent from the letter, but had thought it was his imagination.

“I am not prone to jealousy, Ben,” she said, looking back up. “In fact, I am hoping that you will write a similar missive to her in return.”

“What?”

“Historically, Peggy Shippen was the wife of Arnold. He has yet to propose to her, much less start their courtship via his now-probably-not-happening appointment as Philadelphia's Governor-General. However, she is also a known and staunch Tory. I suspect that her appearance at that soiree was out of societal expectations, but it seems that you've made quite an impression on her, enough for her to consider writing you...with or without her father's permission. Or...”

“Or?” he asked, pushing the surprise of whom the Shippen family supported to the side. Mr. Shippen had graciously hosted the soiree, had talked quite earnestly of the victory at Brandywine, and had even given the impression that he and all of Philadelphia were grateful for the expulsion of whatever British troops remained in the vicinity of the city.

“Or, it is quite possible that she was colluding with Major John Andre, for historically, the British were supposed to have defeated Washington at Brandywine, Germantown, and other skirmishes outside of Philadelphia. Andre set up his espionage headquarters in the city and used Miss Shippen as an indirect agent to turn General Arnold to the British cause after Washington retook Philadelphia.”

“Andre wasn't there,” he said, frowning. Thrice, or was it already four, that he heard of General Arnold's defection and eventual betrayal. It worried him, for there was a more particular general that he was concerned with in possible betrayal than Arnold. It was Lee, and his fairly surprising escape from British custody, which Ben thought was quite suspicious. That and he had no proof, but he suspected that those of the 2nd Continentals patrol unit that had been ambushed by Robert Rogers' men last year in New Jersey, had been betrayed by someone on the inside – someone high in the chain of command. His patrol unit's mission had been secret.

“No, he wasn't,” she agreed. “However, given that it seems Miss Shippen has taken a rather _intimate_ interest in you, we may yet turn her into a Patriot – after all, her father does have quite an influence in society and we'll need that influence to help combat those disparaging Washington.”

Astonished at just how perceptive she was in the scheme of all things, he briefly wondered if she was more fit for the duty of Head of Intelligence than he was. Perhaps-- he mentally shook his head as he recalled her words to him that particular spring day: she had been coerced into the life of espionage. She did not want to do it, and thus only performed her duties because of her beliefs. He could not – would not – ask that of her, to shoulder the responsibility of being Head of Intelligence.

“I-I know not what to write in my reply to her,” he said, and it was true. Years ago, he would have happily answered such missives with equally ribald replies, but now, now was different. It felt wrong for him to carry on or give such false hope to a woman who seemingly pined away for him, while he carried on a strange but soothing relationship with the woman standing right next to him.

“Pretend that I wrote it to you,” she simply said, handing him the letter. “Pretend that you're writing back to me, after all, your letters to me were inspired, if not conventional. I'm sure you have quite a wild imagination.”

Though the thick cloths of his jacket and shirt underneath prevented him from feeling her touch, to which he found himself longing for, she grasped his right forearm for a moment before turning and left. Alone with only the chill of the tent surrounding him, he glanced down at the letter again before placing it on his desk. He needed at least a pint of ale before he could even think about composing an adequate reply to a woman he had no interest in.

~~~

Ben was well on his way to filling up his fourth pint from the generous casks of ales that Caleb had contributed, when he heard a familiar voice saying, “... that he, who shall be given into madness, shall face judgment when it calls. That he, who shall summon devilry to assist in any victory be it big or small, shall reap what he sows.” There was a pause in the man's voice and Ben finally identified the man to be Major William Bradford, Lee's man. More importantly, he recognized the passage that Bradford was quoting from, and it was from that damnable pamphlet. “I couldn't have said it better myself about our Commander-in-Chief, boys.”

“Well, who do you think published it?” one of the officers sitting in the little cabal around Bradford asked.

“Someone with common sense and the courage to speak out,” Bradford stated.

Ben had enough as he slammed his mug onto the barrel, stating, “Oy, Bradford! You might want to be more careful with that. Your 'anonymous' hero makes common sense sound a bit like treason.” With the way the officer was stating passages from the pamphlet, it sounded just like something that could be written by someone within Lee's camp. But with no proof, he could not go around accusing people of treason...and if Washington was not going to do anything about the vitriolic words being stated by _officers_ , he, Ben, would at least try to stymie it.

He saw Bradford smugly take a gulp of his own pint of ale, with whatever he was saying quite muffled. Ben thought he heard him stated, “That's your commander he's hacking at.”

“What?!” he said, abandoning his mug, incensed. Taking a few delibreate steps towards Bradford, he nearly hissed his words, saying, “What did you just say?”

“This letter,” Bradford said, holding up the pamphlet, “is well formed opinion based on fact.”

Scoffing at such absurdity, Ben said, “Our esteemed commander--”

“Sent whatever advantage we had to Saratoga,” the man interrupted. “He would have nearly lost at Brandywine had he not sought or summoned the assistance of those devilish cavalry. His gamble at Saratoga cost us thousands of men, possibly more than we can afford to lose. And—and he now enlists _women_ in the Army?! Are we that castrated to need the help of the lesser sex, who will just run away when confronted with the sight of a man's head blown off. Whom possibly can't even reload a rifle fast enough that we need to save her life?! Is it treason to speak the facts in this Army now?”

As infuriated as he was with Bradford's words, Ben barely held his anger back as he asked, “And so, who would you see as commander?”

“Congress would likely choose Gates,” Bradford answered, smirking.

Ben nodded, though he fought the urge to lunge forward and punch that irritable smile off of the man's face. “Gates. Sure... perhaps your man Charles Lee--”

“Stand down--” Bradford warned, taking a step forward to close the distance in an attempt to intimidate him with his height.

“Who was captured while with his mistress,” Ben continued, on a roll now. “Fact.”

“Who escaped the enemy on his own--”

“Who is she?” he asked, stepping around and affecting a quizzical look to those around him. “A tavern wench?” As if enlightened by the silence, he stated, “No wonder he's been missing in the field so much – too busy with his _horn pipe_!”

“At least he has one!” Bradford shouted, stepping right back up in front of him. “And the sons to prove it. Poor George needs to content himself with collecting young men--”

Something inside of Ben snapped as he lunged forward, violently pushing Bradford back into the ground with both hands before curling his hands into fists and punched the man in the face. He felt someone grab him by his shoulders, hauling off of Bradford, but as he was lifted off the ground, he merely pivoted and attempted to punch his attacker before pain blossomed on the side of his face.

It didn't hurt as much as it should have, and as he swung his left fist up and into the stomach of the officer who had clocked him, he thought he heard Caleb's voice shout, “Sorry, sir, but that's my friend you're punching!”

His attacker was spun away, but just as the old attacker left, a new one entered, but not before he thought he heard a female voice, belonging to no other person than Brewster, shout, “Woohoo! Bar fight!” It was swiftly followed by yet another exclamation from her, saying, “And sir, if you ever have doubts about women fighting, I suggest you remember _this_!”

Ben didn't see Brewster's rather impressive feint against Bradford that was swiftly followed by a kick that he would later learn was called a 'roundhouse kick', but he did manage to block a punch from his new attacker who had been trying to clock him in the head. He followed it up with his own, striking the side of the man's head as pain blossomed across his knuckles and spread through his hand.

Three more punches, and on the end of yet another one to his stomach, he wasn't the only one to stagger away as all participants separated. Exhausted and nursing bruises and split skin that were just starting to hurt quite badly as the alcohol-aided fight within them wore off, Ben managed to make his way back to the cask he had abandoned his mug upon. Taking a few gulps to fend off the pain, he felt Caleb drape an arm around him, turning him slightly.

Slightly bleary-eyed, he saw Brewster standing a bit beyond Caleb, grinning in the same manner that graced Caleb's expression. Both seemed quite happy with the results, and as he looked back towards the area where they had fought, he could still see Bradford and his men half-crawling up, nursing their wounds.

“Hey, Caleb,” he said, knowing that he had to apologize to his friend, to let him know that he was right. Now was a good time as any, especially since his friend and Brewster had both effectively saved him from a rather severe beating. “Thank you, and you were right. You were right about Culper. It's not safe to make contact unless he's signaled. I won't move without you.”

“Are you all right?” Caleb asked, his cheery expression turning to a concerned one.

Gingerly rolling his head and his shoulders, feeling the pain dull with the ale, he also felt the sting from liquid touching his lips and carefully touched his bloodied lip. “Eh, it's just a scratch--”

“Are you all right, though?” his friend interrupted, repeating his question.

It took him a moment to realize that Caleb was not asking about his injuries, but was rather concerned with what he had just stated. “What, have I really been such an ass?” he asked.

He saw him snort in laughter before saying, “Yeah...yeah, you have.”

He knew that his question to him wasn't a truly an apology, but it was what it was – an olive branch, and he knew that his friend had forgiven him for what had happened earlier. “I wish I could just walk up and ask that of Washington,” he wistfully stated. If only the lines between him and his commander were as of ease as it was between him and Caleb. If only Washington acknowledged that he, Ben Tallmadge, was his eyes and ears for not only military intelligence, but also of his leadership. He truly thought the man was the best they had to win the war. “Are you all right, sir?” he continued. “The man won't stand up for himself against his detractors. I...I cannot for the life of me understand why.”

“Well, he needs to show leadership, I suppose?” Caleb offered. “Always under pressure, shouldering burdens and with what purpose we don't know or can't see, eh?”

Ben felt him clap him on the back before guiding him away from the cask. Taking another sip of ale, he couldn't help but grin slightly, careful not to continue to irritate the split lip as he saw Brewster chugging down a pint herself as if it were water. As soon as she was done, she thunked her mug down on the cask she had been taking her pints from, in a slightly challenging manner. Ben merely raised his mug but did not accept the challenge. One night of challenges and fights was enough for now.

“What the--?

Both of them stopped and turned, and mirroring Brewster's surprised expression, saw Natalie, who was dressed in her usual cotton blue dress, standing next to the campfire nearest to them. He heard Caleb mutter in a jesting tone, “Caught by the boarding house lady.” Somehow, that particular statement seemed quite hilarious to both him and Brewster, for he gave a bark of laughter just as Brewster did, but winced as that caused his split lip to pull.

He saw Natalie sigh and shake her head slightly before throwing her hands up in the air in the same exact gesture that he had seen Sackett do many a times before. “Can't take you anywhere, Carrie,” he heard her mutter, but before he could untangle himself from Caleb's arm around him, he heard her say in a much more serious tone, “I do hope all three of you are quite finished with your fight. You'll need to clean up because General Washington has asked for a private dinner with all three of you, including myself, Samantha, and Mr. Sackett.”

“Oooh, a private dinner with old Georgie himself,” Caleb stated, though Ben could hear the tinge of humor within that statement.

“Incorrect,” Natalie stated, not at all amused by Caleb's attempt to alleviate the serious atmosphere. “A guest arrived with the courier today. A very important guest.”

~~~

Ben felt quite self-conscious at his state of appearance, but there was no helping it. He wasn't sure about Caleb though, for his friend had arrived dressed in the same clothes he had been wearing, albeit there was an attempt to clean his clothes. Brewster had reluctantly returned to the house to change into her dress, and now stood in front of their important guest, trying to look as pleasant as possible without revealing her true feelings about having been forced to wear a dress yet again.

It had been all for the sake of impressions, as he knew that because he, Caleb, Sackett, and Washington had spent so much time with the women that they were practically used to the various outfits the women wore. And even though they had at least a force of three hundred advanced soldiers from the future guarding eastern Long Island, alliances were still to be had with the French. It would most definitely help them after the significant loss at Saratoga.

“Monsieur, may I introduce to you, my current Head of Intelligence, Major Benjamin Tallmadge. To his left is my adviser of espionage and all things related in methodology, Mr. Nathaniel Sackett. To his left is courier and an agent of our spy ring, Lieutenant Caleb Brewster. These three lovely women next to them are also participants of our spy ring and are about four hundred years removed from the future. Their surnames bear the same as whom I've just introduced. Agent Natalie Sackett, Lieutenant Carrie Brewster, and Agent Samantha Tallmadge,” Washington said. “Agents, Mr. Sackett, and officers, this is Thevenau De Francy of the French Intelligence.”

“Bonjour,” the six of them collectively said together, though that was the extent of French Ben knew.

“Ah, so it is true,” De Francy said, as Washington gestured for all of them to make their way to the main dining room. “Your letter, it seemed odd, but now that I am here, I see.”

As Ben politely helped Samantha into her seat at the table, having not been quick enough to step towards Natalie to help her before Sackett could, he caught De Francy's curious stare at the women. Though he was sure that all three were on their best behavior, they did not demure under De Francy's inquisitive gaze and instead, continued to hold their heads in a manner that was similar to how he had first met them. As he walked around the table to take his seat at the left side of his commander, he thought he saw an unsure smile appear on De Francy's expression before it quickly disappeared.

Polite, topical conversations that ranged from King Louis' current affairs at court, to philosophical discussions coming from Boston and Philadelphia governed the first two courses of the meal. Ben occasionally agreed or disagreed with the polite debate that was happening between Washington and the Frenchman, but he was quite glad that Caleb was sitting next to him. He had to occasionally kick his friend in the shins to keep him awake. Sackett was merely listening to everything with interest and sometimes bobbed his head up and down or hummed and muttered 'interesting...'.

As for the three women, they were silent, but it did not escape his, or probably everyone else at the table, save Caleb, that they were listening quite closely. None of them had commented thus far, but given what he knew of their natures, Ben was sure that after the dinner, the three would probably be analyzing every word that emerged from the Frenchman's mouth. As for the purpose of their analysis he was curious to find out, and he hoped that none of them would particularly mind his intrusion.

It was only when the final course emerged, along with a rather fine port, did De Francy finally engage the women by saying, “I could not help but notice during the meal that while two of you hold your utensils and eat in the American way, one of you has taken up the European way. Most curious. Four hundred years... how did circumstances bring you to here? Surely three of you were not separated from your husbands? You must have been quite frightened of this world.”

Though Ben saw that the three maintained as pleasant of an expression as they had held throughout the dinner, he heard Caleb deliberately cough beside him, but quickly put an elbow into the side of his friend before he could speak up. After a moment, it was Natalie who merely tilted her head slightly in deference towards the Frenchman, saying, “Sir, we understand that there are certain conventions that you and your people may not be used to, especially with regards to us and the period that we are from. Please allow me to help clarify and answer your question.” She took a deep breath before her next words became quite indecipherable as he realized that she was speaking in halting French.

He saw De Francy's expression light up for a moment, happy to see someone attempting to speak his native language, but that moment was quickly dashed as his brows furrowed and his lips seemed to thin slightly. As soon as Natalie was done with her explanation, he nodded before saying his reply in a neutral tone.

Whatever had been exchanged between the two seemed to need no explanation as De Francy immediately turned his attention back to Washington, saying, “If you would excuse my rudeness, General. I meant no disrespect to your agents, though I had not anticipated the shrewd usage of women in matters of espionage.”

“Ah, sir, these are agents under the command of Major Tallmadge here,” Washington clarified, gesturing to Ben.

“Then, Major, please accept my apologies,” the Frenchman said, bowing his head slightly.

“Uh, apology accepted,” he answered a bit hastily, glancing over at the placid expression that his commander wore.

“Good,” De Francy answered, straightening himself as Ben felt Caleb nudge him with an elbow and caught his friend's smirk under his bushy beard. “Perhaps we in France shall also consider utilizing citizens of all natures and sexes soon, for we have heard of the victory at Saratoga and also of the successful defense of Philadelphia, we do have some problems outside of the court. Ratification and acceptance of an alliance between America and France has not yet been signed.”

“When will that happen? And when it does, what forces can we expect and how soon?” Washington asked, taking that opportunity to finally bring the discussion to the most pressing of issues.

“I was sent under the orders of King Louis to see and observe if this alliance is viable – but that was before the court heard of your victories, General. I would still like to observe, especially in intelligence matters, but worry not, my next letter will provide France with more favorable updates.” The Frenchman took a sip of the port before continuing to say, “As for forces, well, I cannot say for now, but I can tell you that one of our more sympathetic nobles has already gathered up an expeditionary force and is in the midst of sailing to here. Marquis de Lafayette may have to, how do you say it... dodge... these British patrols in the Atlantic, but rest assured, General, there are a few of us in France who do not want to wait for our King to formally declare war to already fight the English dogs.”

“Excellent,” Washington said, as Ben saw a rare smile appear on his commander' face. He also could not help but smile and saw that everyone at the table looked quite happy, except for Natalie who had a pensive look on her face. “Miss Sackett?” Washington asked after a moment, his smile disappearing. “Is there something of concern that you would like to address?”

Ben saw her open her mouth slightly before closing it, uncharacteristically hesitant as she looked down for a moment before looking back up. “Monsieur,” she began, addressing De Francy, “how...what is the nature of this problem outside of King Louis's court?”

“Bah,” De Francy said in a flippant manner, waving his hand in the air as if batting away a fly, “It is nothing. Just some bilge...bilge upstart named Napoleon Bonaparte.”

“Ah,” Natalie said, smoothing her expression into a more politely interested look.

Seeing that there were no other concerns, Washington was the first to stand, as Ben and the others followed his lead. “Monsieur,” Washington said, “if you would please. A tour around camp would do us some good, for we have much to discuss.”

“Yes, yes,” the Frenchman said. “That we do.”

“Ladies,” Washington said, giving the three women a nod before stepping to the side and gestured for the Frenchman to walk beside him.

As soon as the entrance to the house opened and closed, it was Sackett who spoke first, saying, “Natalie?”

“Map,” Samantha stated, as Ben saw Brewster scurry out, but not before issuing a few choice curses about having to hike her dress up slightly so that she could walk faster.

“The French Revolution and Napoleonic War, along with the American Revolution at the _same_ time?” Natalie asked, though it sounded more like a rhetorical question than an actual one.

Whether it was the laughter of shock, insanity, or just pure bafflement that issued from Samantha's lips, he didn't know, but he did know that all three women looked quite distressed. “Napoleonic War? French Revolution?” he asked, hoping that they could at least clarify their nonsensical statements.

“We'll brief Washington tomorrow on it,” Samantha stated, “but suffice to say, I don't think we're going to receive as much help as America historically did in their War for Independence. That Napoleon guy that Mr. Frenchman spoke of? That man attempted to conquer all of Europe in the early 1800's and nearly succeeded. It looks like people of 2177 were not the only ones to have been displaced in time.”

* * *

_Meanwhile, in New York City...again..._

 

Abe nearly yelped in surprise, rather in fear, when a rather enormous rat scuttled over his shoes as he stood by this particular well, peering into it. He had seen rats before, especially near the cesspool areas of the city, but he had not known that they grew so large in this particular area of the city. Stamping his foot on the ground for a few moments, he hoped that the noise would scare away any other such creatures and swung his lantern back over his head to peer back down into the black hole of the well.

It had taken him quite a long time to finally approach the well that Townsend had wanted him to explore, for his excuse to be around his particular area had not been particularly robust until now. There were certain seeds he needed to prepare for next year's planting and harvest, and with winter approaching, there was a particular market in the area where he had found out carried the seeds he needed.

He had taken the day to loiter around the area, looking at various trinkets, and even brought one that he knew his son would adore. Now with the sun down and most everyone inside for evening meal, he knew that he had a little bit of time to explore the well before he too had to return home for evening meal. As he placed the lantern on the lip of the well, he checked the small knife that had been tucked into a wrist sheathe he had created and strapped to underneath left sleeve. There was a second pocket in the strap and he double checked to ensure that it contained a few small pieces of parchment – enough for him to write quick notes.

With the new codebook left in a small niche underneath his bed at home, he would have to take his notes in freeform and then encode it when he got back. Though he was thoroughly annoyed at Ben for changing the encryption to three layers instead of the usual numerical one layer, he understood the need. There was no telling if someone decided to ransack the farmhouse in Setauket, and if they did, the old notebook was most likely compromised.

“Okay,” he whispered to himself as he rubbed his heads together, trying to warm them up in the cool night. “In and out, in and out.”

Unbuttoning the vest that he wore beneath his coat, he unraveled the rope that had been tied around him all day until it laid uncoiled on the ground. Securing an end to the well post, he thew the rest of the rope down until he thought he heard some part of it go _plop_ against what he hoped was solid ground. Taking the oil lantern, he slung it around his arm before wrapping his hands around the rope. Climbing into the well, he braced his feet against the curvature of it and started to lower himself one small crab step down at a time.

After some time, the edges of the well disappeared, but with the lantern swinging this way and that, he thought he saw dirt. Letting go of the rope, he fell the rest of the way and quickly came to a halt, managing to land on his legs. However, the jolt of hitting quite a solid surface with his feet stunned him for a moment. It wore off in little time, and as he swing the lamp to the left and right, it seemed that this strange tunnel under the city went on for miles.

How had no one discovered it before? Why had various wells around the city suddenly dried up? Had it to do with any of the strange, frightening things that happened in Setauket? These were all questions rolling through his mind as he picked a direction and started walking. He knew that he had little time to waste, and if it seemed like the tunnel was not going to end, then he would most definitely have to find a way to return here at a later date for further exploration.

His hopes for a non-endless tunnel were answered as he encountered a rather sharp turn, too sharp-looking to have been carved by hands. However, as he peered down the next bend, it looked just as dark as the one he had just traveled on. Glancing back towards where he could see the faint outline of the rope to the well, he hesitated in pushing on. It was already late, but the need to explore, the need to find out if there were any relevant information he could send back to Washington weighed upon his mind.

He had to press on.

Gingerly, Abe continued down the tunnel, through another bend, and yet another until he lost track of time and of where he was going, through if he turned around, he knew that he would be able to easily find his way out again. However, it was this last tunnel that he was walking through, that he thought he heard something _click_ and paused. Only the flicker of the flame, along with his breath filled the air. After a few moments, he continued until he realized that this particular tunnel led to a rather spacious open area.

 _Click_.

Throwing up his hands as something blindingly bright filled the area, he squeezed his eyes shut, barely aware that he had dropped his lantern. However, there were no other sounds except for his own panicked breathing and it took him a while to realize that he was not being attacked. Opening his eyes, he immediately shut them again as the unnaturally bright light seared into them. Lowering his hands, he waited for a few long moments until he was sure that he was able to open them again. Slowly, he allowed the light to filter in and as they became wider, so did the blurs of things in front of him. Blinking back involuntary tears, he looked around, hoping that the blurriness he saw would subside.

It slowly did, and as it did, he became aware that there was multiple rows of things that looked like cylindrical objects up on a ceiling that were lit up so brightly that it illuminated the entire area in the glow of an unnaturally white sunlight. As his eyes became accustomed to such an unnatural thing, he looked back down and saw that the walls around him in this rather large area were too smooth to have been made by hand, yet looked quite earthen and seemed to posses qualities of dirt. However, it was what was in front of him that shocked him the most.

Four men, dressed in bloodied clothing, hung from the ceiling of this eerie and strange place, looking quite worn, beaten, and battered. They wore clothing that he recognized to be of his time, but they seemed to be in a separate area, as if being displayed in a tailor's window with him being on the outside and merely a spectator. It took him a few minutes to recognize the four men, for they were quite covered in bruises and blood.

They were the missing four Setauket men.

“Dear God,” he breathed, raising a hand to his mouth in shock as he stumbled back a few steps.

Slow, deliberate claps of a person approaching halted his movement as he spun around. Another jolt of surprise, followed by swift anger, then confusion coursed through him as he stood there, unsure as to what to do, the person approaching was blocking his only way out.

The man, with dark brown hair and a sallow, long face that he recognized, but yet did not upon his face, stopped his claps before putting his hands behind his back. It was Simcoe, but something in the back of his mind told him that this particular person was most definitely not Simcoe. In fact, the man's dressage was quite strange – long pants that seemed to be loose but defined enough so that there was a sharp crease down the center of each pant leg matched the coloring of the man's jacket. The man also wore a collared white shirt underneath and what looked to be a long, solid color of a rectangular scarf of sorts around his neck.

“Welcome, Abraham Woodhull,” the man stated. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you. I am Deputy Director Jonathan Simcoe of the Ministry of Intelligence – Section Six.”

* * *

_At the garrison border of northern New York City..._

 

Patience was a virtue, and though Simcoe originally had none of it, the past few months that he had spent in certain company had instilled it into him. That and also the training that he had received. Of course, it was absurd, and he didn't believe most of the tales told himself, but there was a certain ruthlessness and efficiency that those he now took orders from had. He glanced up towards the small lookout tower where a certain former Setauket garrison commander was now stationed in this part of the city.

While he felt it was good riddance to be done with Major Hewlett, he did wish that he had been a little more deliberate in provoking the Major to action during the Setauket debacle. They had the upper hand, and damn the Director for yielding as he had found out earlier in the summer. He didn't understand why the Director had yielded such a place to the rebels, especially to a future rebel that seemed to be a thorn in the Director's plans, but no answer had been given to him.

Still, all was not lost, and as he heard the shuffle of feet on the watchtower, he glanced up just in time to see Major Hewlett peer out and down at him and the fourteen other men he had with him. Tipping his tricorn slightly at him, he gave him a smile before glancing down at the steed that he was riding. “Fear not, Bucephalus, we shall be on our way soon,” he stated, knowing that his words would carry quite well and up to Hewlett.

Glancing back up, he couldn't help but smirk at Hewlett's expression of rage, before seeing his eyes slid right to the horse's eyes and widening slightly. “Your eyes do not deceive you, Major. Yes, they are red eyes,” he said, wondering just how much longer he had to sit here and wait for the gates to open. He knew that the strange beasts, named as 'robotic' horses by his counterpart and by the Director, would be able to easily break through the garrison gates – but why expend energy when they still had a long ride up to their destination.

He heard a noise of frustration, or was it anger, he didn't know, issue from Hewlett before hearing the man say, “Open the gates. Let them through.”

“Thank you, Major,” he genially replied.

A few minutes later, even before the gates were fully opened, he signaled to the fourteen and they thundered from civilization and into the wilderness. As he glanced back to see the gates begin to shut, he sighed and looked forward again.

“Destination, sir?” one of the men riding beside him asked.

“Hmm,” Simcoe contemplated for a moment. “I believe that it may be time for those Connecticut towns, Danbury and Ridgefield, to burn.”

 

~*~*~*~


	7. Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy (Pt. 2)

**Chapter 7: Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy (Pt. 2)**

 

“So this...Napoleon Bonaparte...he is a threat to Britain?”

“Yes,” Ben answered the Frenchman's question, tapping a particular area the world map that was laid out on the table. “Though given that we do not know of the immediate situation, we could only extrapolate that if your people can contain him and focus him on Britain, he would prove quite formidable in keeping the English from sending soldiers or hiring more mercenaries to sail here.”

“We?” De Francy asked.

“Myself, Mr. Sackett here, Agents Sackett and Tallmadge, along with lady Lieutenant Brewster,” he said. After the evening meal, all of them, minus Caleb who had merely opted to observe the entire debate, had discussed Natalie's inquiry into the man known as Napoleon Bonaparte. While it had been highly unconventional for her to have outright asked such a question to an intelligence officer that she had just met only hours before, neither De Francy or Washington had commented upon it when they had returned from their walk around camp.

If whatever history they were trying to still preserve existed, Ben found out that in the near future, Napoleon Bonaparte would or had become quite a great threat to all of Europe. If it hadn't been for his million-man army's defeat in Russia – by mostly the Russian winter no less – the man might have become the next Julius Caesar. American participation in the Napoleonic War had been tepid at best, and he found himself slightly relieved that they stayed mostly out of it...except for their declaration of war in 1812 against the British Empire...again.

Due to many uncertainties surrounding the inquiry and unknown factors, they had decided not to brief Washington or the Frenchman until the morning. When he had arrived back at the house just after the break of dawn, he had found out that Natalie had stayed up all night re-reading several congressional-copied diplomatic missives and scouting reports that cited sightings of possible foreign forces. He had also done the same with his own reports, but had eventually retired to sleep at least for a couple of hours. She had not done so, and was now resting after having given him a short summary of her assessment. It was this assessment he now presented to Washington and De Francy.

Samantha had accosted him when he had returned to the house early in the morning, citing that since they had control of eastern Long Island, rather than wait for another fortnightly report from Setauket, that she go collect an as-up-to-date report as possible on all coastal sightings. He had agreed to that, but not before finding Brewster and ordering her to travel with Samantha – considering how much trouble Caleb had said it took him to evade British patrols around the New York City region, he did not want her to travel alone. While the two had taken their robotic horses and he had not stopped them from doing so, he hoped that they were discreet about just how fast they were to ride from here to Setauket.

“And...you trust these women?” De Francy asked, though Ben saw his eyes stray towards Washington.

He glanced up at his commander, but after a few moments of silence, Ben chose to say, “I do and they have not shown any reason for me to doubt them or of the validity of the information that they have analyzed and presented. In fact, two of my agents are currently on their way to fetch more information on coastal activity in the region that will hopefully help us correlate more data on ships that have sailed in and out of area ports.”

He heard a non-committal noise issue from Sackett's lips, but caught the faint smile on his mentor's face before it quickly disappeared. However, as he glanced over to his commander yet again, Washington's expression remained neutrally flat. His commander's words with regards to the lack of military intelligence still rang in his ears, and he had hoped that by allowing Samantha and Brewster to go to Setauket, that would have at least had a positive effect on his commander. It seemed that Washington was not moved by the initiative.

“Is it possible, Major Tallmadge,” the Frenchman asked after a moment, “that I may personally talk to your Miss Sackett? To learn more about this Napoleon Bonaparte?”

“ _Agent_ Sackett,” he began, stressing her title, for he felt that she and the others were due what they had been accorded, “is unfortunately feeling a little unwell, sir.” He did not want to disturb her rest, but he was not sure how to deter the Frenchman, for he was sure that stating that she needed rest was not the best of excuses to make, especially in front of a potential ally and in front of the Commander-in-Chief.

His attempt to make an excuse for Natalie was for naught as Sackett spoke up, saying, “However, I shall see if she is up for a small discussion. Please meet us in the room at the end of the hall, Monsieur.”

“Good,” the Frenchman curtly said, before giving a nod to both Ben and Washington and left. Ben caught Sackett's shrug before the man gave a little 'hmph' and also left.

“Any news of the Hessians or those at Valley Forge?” Washington suddenly asked in the silence that fell upon the room.

“Uh, no, sir,” he answered, mentally wincing at the fact that he still had nothing in the immediate relevance for his commander.

“Your attendance at the Governor-General's ball did not produce any viable contacts?” Washington quietly asked, as he picked up a report and glanced at the map with roving eyes.

“One possible agent, sir,” he said, knowing that he eventually would have to return to his tent and finish the letter to one Peggy Shippen. He loathed to call her an agent, for he wasn't sure that if she returned letters to him, they would even contain information that he needed. Though he now understood the primary reason why Natalie had urged him to write back to the young woman – and it was definitely not for the defense of Washington's reputation, he still felt acutely uncomfortable doing it.

“One?”

“It will take time, sir, but the potential agent is known to have influence and information over several areas within the city and that will help with our eyes and ears in the region,” he explained. Washington remained silent as Ben saw him pick up yet another report before moving a small rectangular red piece from near Saratoga and back down to Westpoint. “Sir,” he stated after a few moments. “About Culper...”

That caught his commander's attention as he saw him put the report back down and gave him his undivided attention. “Sir,” he said, swallowing his nervousness back down. Washington had pressed him into almost committing a rash action, and it was only because Caleb reminded him of the consequences, and of why he had kept insisting that his agents be kept safe that he knew he had to tell his commander the truth. “I will not be conducting any operation to contact Culper. Our established protocol is to wait for him to signal, and in order to keep my agent safe and able to continue to send information about New York City, I will wait for his signal...sir.”

The silence that followed was quite maddening, but after a few moments, Washington returned his gaze to the map. “After tonight's evening meal with the officers, Tallmadge, you will be transporting prisoners to our mutual contact in Setauket.”

“Sir?” he questioned, but found that he had more than just one question as to why Washington was now agreeing to his counterpart's proposal about Robert Rogers and the Queen's Rangers.

“If this Napoleon Bonaparte is successful in diverting British interests in America, then we must be ready to respond and take New York,” Washington murmured just loud enough for Ben to hear him if he leaned in slightly. “However, given that we know little of the conditions and troops inside, freeing those garrisoned at Setauket would be more advantageous than allowing such a force to sit and wait. If the future-Major Tallmadge is successful at convincing Rogers and others of his ilk to fight for the Continentals, would it be a boon to our cause?”

“It would be, sir,” he answered, hoping that his prompt would allow his commander to speak a little more freely about the situation, despite his frustration at being unable to provide him with the necessary information about New York City.

“Would it be, had not such a snake in the form of Rogers already tried to slither into the Continental Army and poison it from within,” Washington continued to say, though it now seemed like he was talking to himself more than to Ben. But his assessment of his commander was incorrect as Washington looked towards him, saying, “Mercenary, Tallmadge. I knew and heard of Rogers and his actions taken during the Seven Years War, and it seems that he has not changed since then. I do not agree with your counterpart's proposal for his possible usage, but I do see the merit within it.”

“I'm sure my counterpart has thought of and will take all precautions in dealing with Rogers, sir,” he answered.

“Precautions may not be enough,” Washington said, surprising Ben with his answer. “We shall see what becomes of this planted seed when it is reaped.”

* * *

_Somewhere Underground in New York City..._

 

“More tea?”

Abe remained silent as he glared at his host before glancing around the austere room they were sitting in. The table set out before him was of a clean metal construction that he had not thought possible. There was a small porcelain pot of tea that sat in the center of the table, framed by two small caddies of what looked to be delicately arranged food of some sort. The chair that he was sitting seemed to be made of the same metal material and was quite hard against his buttocks and back. However, he was not chained in irons to the chair and had free range of movement and even the ability to get up and walk away if he wanted to.

He didn't, for the door sat behind his captor, and despite the cordial manner in which he had been treated thus far, there was something in this particular man's eyes that told him that attempting to escape was not the wisest of ideas. So he sat, silent and obstinate in every imaginable way that he could make himself to be. Whereas his host had generously poured him a cup of tea in the fanciful-looking cup that sat in an even more fancifully designed saucer, and served him what looked to be a small rectangular slice of bread and eggs – he dared not touch or make a move towards the food, despite his gnawing hunger.

He did not know how long he had sat there in the chair but given that he had dozed off for a while and woke up to find himself still upright, albeit with a very bad crick in his neck, and in this room, he guessed that it was morning. Nothing on his person had been disturbed, and it didn't seem like the man before him had bothered to kill him in his sleep. Or perhaps it was still night and this was all a bad dream. He pinched himself again – it was not a dream, it was real. Looking around again for what felt like an eternity, he saw nothing but smooth grey walls that looked like slate stone surrounding him. Harsh light from above, in tubes too smooth for him to figure out how they had been created and just how they projected such a brightness that almost equaled the sun, shone down upon the room.

“Come now, Mr. Woodhull,” the man sitting before him in such strange attire genially said. “You must be quite thirsty and hungry. Please, eat. Drink. I do not wish to poison you nor do I wish you to collapse out of dehydration or lack of nourishment.”

“S-Simcoe,” he began, before coughing and tried to swallow several times to wet his parched throat. He was not going to drink or eat anything offered to him, especially when this particular person held the face of the enemy. “Right?”

“Yes,” the man answered, nodding. “Jonathan Simcoe, but most people know me as John, similar to my namesake ancestor.”

“Who...what the hell are you?” he demanded as he clenched his fists, resisting the urge to get up and attempt to punch the man across the table. He had thought it a fluke, a momentary relapse of sense – perhaps he had been too worried and had not gotten enough rest when Ben and unit had attacked Setauket. He had thought that seeing two Ben Tallmadges, along with those very strangely uniformed soldiers was because of his deliriousness – but it had not been. He had thought it to be isolated, to be a strange happening from God, but now...he was having second thoughts.

This man knew his name, and from the words that he had uttered thus far, Abe was sure that his cover had been completely blown. He was made, and he would soon be hanged as a traitor – as a spy. He would not give any information out, and if he was able to, he would die without compromising his friends or his family. But how to resolve this... person sitting in front of him? Was there a way he could escape? Why did this person look similar to Simcoe, but did not have the personality that he had come to expect from Simcoe? Who or what was Jonathan Simcoe, and what exactly was the Ministry of Intelligence – Section 6?

“You've met them, haven't you, Mr. Woodhull?” Simcoe asked, tilting his head slightly as Abe saw him fix a simple but knowing gaze upon him. “The others... at Setauket? Major Benjamin Tallmadge's counterpart, US Army Major Benjamin S. Tallmadge?”

Abe remained silent.

“I am similar to the US Army major, Mr. Woodhull. I am...how shall I say it... a descendant of the Captain John Graves Simcoe that you know of. I am from the future, and right now, I am quite stuck here. You just happened to walk in on an inopportune time.”

“You killed them,” he spat out, “you killed the four of them--”

“On the contrary,” Simcoe interrupted, holding a hand up, “I did not. Those four from Setauket are not dead. They were hanging from their hands. They are still quite alive, I assure you. And before you ask, Mr. Woodhull, my purpose with them is merely leverage. You see, I want this war to end as much as you do. I do hate the bloodshed that has been spilled between our peoples, especially now that we're mixing two eras.”

“I don't believe you, you bastard,” he hissed.

Simcoe sighed as Abe saw him glance down at his nails for a moment before looking back up. Still the man's amiable demeanor did not change as he said, “I _do_ intend to let you walk out of here alive, Mr. Woodhull. It is most definitely not my intention to kill you. You can write to your handlers of what is here, but tell me, would they really believe such outlandish tales? I'm sure they're still trying to believe whatever has appeared before them from my era, especially with the rumors of a cavalry named the Devil's Cavalry appearing at Brandywine. I know exactly why you're here, Mr. Woodhull, and not just in this facility. I know your purpose in New York City and I do urge you to send General Washington all the information that you can provide on troop and ship details. In fact, here the most current count that I have.”

Abe saw him withdraw a thin, folded sheet of parchment from inside of his grey jacket. Unfolding it, he placed it on the table and slid it to the center, allowing it to sit next to the still-full pot of tea. Abe didn't touch the piece of paper, but he did see the list that stated just how many troops – specific types of troops, along with different types of ships from ships of the line to frigates, sloops, and even whaleboats on it. It was most definitely a lot more than he or Townsend and his people had counted, last he met up with them.

“Take it,” Simcoe said, folding his hands across the table. “Please, Mr. Woodhull. All I'm trying to do here is to end this war.”

“For what purpose?” he questioned, coughing as he tried to wet this throat again, with the tea sitting in front of him still tempting him to drink. In front of such accusations, he could attempt to continue to deny that he served Washington in the capacity as a spy, but that protection was long gone. He needed to think of other ways to maximize his changes of survival and escape if he could. He did not trust this particular man's words about not killing him at all. “What do you get out of this, Simcoe?”

“I see that you've been greatly affected by my ancestor, and even though my words may sound empty, I sincerely apologize for his actions towards you. I do not agree with his rather uncouth and bloodlust ways, but I cannot stop him, for my own existence is dependent on his. In all honesty, if I could, I would most definitely kill him with my own hands, but alas, then I would not be able to help you end this war sooner.”

“By what, providing me with false information so that I betray Washington, turn myself into a true Loyalist?” he challenged. “I'd rather be hanged first.”

Simcoe raised an eyebrow as he said, “While that can be easily arranged, Mr. Woodhull, I'd rather not have that happen. I'd rather have you become a better and more efficient agent for General Washington than see you strung up in this British viper's nest that rests above us.”

“Or are those troops roaming the streets actually from this Britannia that I was told has invaded American shores after nearly four hundred years of freedom?”

“I'm surprised that you would think that way,” Simcoe said. “After all, with such advanced weaponry and items that look almost like magic to the populace here, would Britannian troops really want to live in such... squalor? No, I think not. Washington would most likely find Britannian troops outside of the city than within it.”

Narrowing his eyes slightly, Abe gave him a grim smile as he mirrored the way Simcoe sat, leaning his arms on the table as he pushed the plate and cup of tea slightly away. “All right,” he said, giving the man a level look. “Let's say I believe you. That I'm not delirious and that somehow, you're speaking the truth. Let's say I bring this information back to Washington. I want guarantees that you're telling the truth, that you're not lying and that you won't betray me. Release the four men.”

Simcoe merely gave him a equally grim smile in return as he said, “I would ask that you trust me, but I don't believe that's going to happen any time soon. Those four men are here for leverage, because if Washington or his Head of Intelligence thinks you compromised, I'll need those four for... insurance purposes--”

“Washington will never bow to threats.”

“Ah, but your Major Tallmadge did. He showed it when he raided Setauket and forced the British garrison to surrender. I need them to stop the war, and if I have to, I will force at least Major Tallmadge's hand.”

“You bastard,” he growled.

“But I am not here to cause further ill will, Mr. Woodhull,” Simcoe continued before Abe could say anything else. “I know as well as you do that most threats will not work if they're completely empty, and even the Setauket four will not bend Washington. I need him to eventually invade New York City. Therefore, in good faith for our future partnership, I will give you a few days to consider my offer and release two of the four.”

“How about now?” he demanded. “Release all of them now.”

“Mr. Woodhull, they've been quite malnourished for these past few months. It will be a miracle if I can get all four of them to even regain half of their strength. No, as I said before, I shall give you your few days to contemplate and in good faith, two of them will be released,” Simcoe answered. “And, as an advancement in our eventual partnership, I can most definitely guarantee that my ancestor is no where near you. I believe that last I heard, he had passed through the northern garrison gates. You may confirm that story with Major Hewlett, if you so wish.”

Abe was about to retort when the door behind Simcoe suddenly opened in silence, revealing a lit hall. He glanced at his captor, who merely gestured for him to leave. Unsure whether or not it was another trap, he stayed in his seat for a few moments longer until the urge to run and escape became quite unbearable. Slowly standing, he gripped the edge of the smooth table, wincing slightly at just how cold it was against his bare skin. As soon as the dizziness from the lack of water and food subsided, he slowly made his way around the table, well aware that Simcoe was watching his every move. Turning towards Simcoe as he backed towards the entrance, he kept his eyes on the man until after he crossed the threshold.

“Oh, and Mr. Woodhull,” Simcoe said, causing him to pause in his steps. “You might want to have a long talk with Mrs. Woodhull. I have it on good authority that she knows what you are, where your allegiances lie. I don't want any complications to arise in this partnership that we are about to embark upon.”

Before he was able to respond to the man's words, the door abruptly closed, plunging him into silence. “Damn you, Simcoe,” he muttered. It was a futile effort for him to bang his fists on the door, for it would not open and there was no response from within. Giving up, he turned around and started down the hall. As he made his way through the winding place, occasionally glancing back and around to see if anyone was following him, he finally spotted a piece of rope that was hanging from a shaft in the ceiling of the place. It took him a moment to realize that that particular rope was attached to the well that he had climbed into last night...or was it the night before... he didn't know how long he had been down here.

However, knowing that his family would be worried, he grabbed the rope and started to hoist himself up until his legs found purchase on the walls of the empty well. With the climb made a little easier, he eventually hauled himself out of the well and found himself facing quite a cloudy day. It also looked like there had been a few rain showers that passed through the area, for the ground was damp and slightly muddy. Untying the rope, he dropped it back down into the well before looking around. There was no one present in this area, and from what he could smell and hear of the distant sounds of life out of this particular area, it sounded as if it were still early in the morning.

Pulling back his left sleeve, he was surprised to see the small blade still attached and in the sheathe he had created. Withdrawing the blade, he grimaced as he knew he had to cut himself yet again to ensure that he had a proper excuse for not returning home and making his family worry about him. Trying not to make too loud of a sound as he brought the blade up across his forehead before making a second cut just above his right jaw, he wiped the blade within the folds of his shirt before resheathing it.

Blood dripped across his eyes, and down into his shirt as he affected a slight limp and began his long journey home. He was careful to avoid most of the main streets, where he knew that crowds would be gathered, for he did not want to draw attention to himself until he was closer to home.

As soon as he stepped out into the main street that would lead him directly home, there were several gasps of surprise from the people who had been carrying on with their early day. He heard someone run off, most likely to fetch a patrol of redcoats. Minutes later, in quite a predictable fashion, he heard the scuffle of feet on the dirt approach but far be it that it was a small patrol unit that came barreling down the street – it was a rather large unit and they were being led by none other than Major Hewlett.

“Woodhull!” Hewlett called out. “Thank goodness we've found you!”

“Major,” he greeted as the redcoats surrounded him.

“What happened, Woodhull?”

“Eh, some rascals thought they'd try to attempt to mug me for money down by the south edge of where the Great Fire was stopped. I gave them a bit of a fight, and I think they knocked me out. Found myself in an alleyway when I came to this morning,” Abe lied.

“You, and you,” Hewlett immediately said, pointing to two of the soldiers. “Go down to the garrison commander near the south harbor and inform him that there are muggers out and about. We must eradicate such a threat that they do not harass other citizens.” Returning his attention to Abe, he said, “As for you Mr. Woodhull, we'll escort you back home. Richard and your wife have been greatly worried about you. It would most definitely settle their fears to see you safe.”

Abe attempted to smile in a grateful manner, but between the self-inflicted cut along his jaw, and the fact that he still wasn't sure if that future-Simcoe down below told the truth about Mary, the smile was more akin to a grimace. “Thank you,” he said, as the patrol unit surrounded him and one of the soldiers slung his arm around his shoulders.

Hewlett began barking a couple of commands, and despite himself, Abe leaned a bit heavily on the soldier – he was tired, he was hungry, and he was intensely thirsty. There had been a lot of words exchanged between him and the man living below the city, and he was still not sure if the words from the man were the truth. However, what he did know that if this future-Simcoe knew of him, then there was a good chance that the entire spy ring was compromised.

He needed to warn Ben.

* * *

_Morristown, evening..._

 

If Ben thought he was done and rid of the damnable pamphlet after the scuffle with Bradford, he was sorely in the wrong. As he sat to the left of Washington, he could see the occasional simpering smile briefly appear on Bradford's face while the man's immediate commander, General Charles Lee, sat to Bradford's right. Unfortunately, since they and a few others of Lee's mind were sitting at the farthest end of the table, Ben could not clearly hear what they were discussing. However, he did recognize the pamphlet that Lee was holding and clearly murmuring from.

“Tell me Monsieur,” he heard Washington murmur to his right, leaning slightly towards the Frenchman who was sitting on the general's right, “do you have gutter-rats in your country?”

“In France, we would have thrown them into the Bastille,” the Frenchman answered, though considering how low the man had stated his words, Ben was not sure if he caught the comment correctly or not.

As if receiving a sliver of wisdom from those words, he saw his commander return his attention to the table and addressed Lee, saying, “General Lee, what do you read there?”

Ben tried to suppress a grim smile that threatened to erupt on his face as he saw Lee look up, affecting a surprised look that seemed so false as the general stated, “Oh, this...just a complaint, sir. Fanciful, anonymous. You don't want to read it, sir. Trust me.”

“You read it then,” Washington immediately said. “Please.”

The grin that had been budding on Ben's lips disappeared as he gave his commander a puzzled look. Surely his commander knew what exactly Lee was holding and just how vitriolic the contents were – certainly not good dinner conversation material either.

“Sir,” Lee stated a bit hesitatingly as he cleared his throat for a moment. “I believe some people have too much interest in the continuance of the war and that the head cannot be possibly sound when the whole body is of disorder. That Washington, the summoner of demons, should be flogged for his outright blasphemous actions at Brandywine” – the door to the dining room abruptly opened – “that the people of America have been guilty of idolatry, by making a man their god, and the God of Heaven and Earth will convince them by woeful experience that he is only a man...”

Heads turned as a general limped through the entrance, with Lee's reading falling silent. Ben's eyes went wide as he recognized the general who had interrupted Lee – not by sight, but by virtue of merit and description. The man who had just entered was none other than General Benedict Arnold.

“Forgive me,” Arnold continued, with the most contemptuous look that Ben had ever seen appear on any person's face. It was not directed at Washington though, but directly at Lee. “Do continue, for this is a great load of horseshit I've not heard dropped in years.”

In the stunned silence, the door clicked shut and Ben saw Arnold reach over and pluck the pamphlet out of Lee's hands, saying, “Here, allow me.” The man took a moment to read the next few passages, snorting in scornful laughter as he said, “That the Honorable Congress... ha! In many cases, has been led by too much of military men.” Dropping the pamphlet slightly, he asked Lee, “Do you agree with that, Charles?”

In a effort to continue to hide his smile, Ben dropped his head slightly, as he heard Lee defensively answer, “Of course not.”

“No?” Arnold immediately countered, “Oh but I do. Those squeeze crabs in Congress have been misled by military men. Just the wrong kind. They'd be better off listening to a man who has ventured into the cold night and come back with a victory. But don't take my word for it...I'm just a poor son of a drunkard,” – Ben saw Arnold look up towards Washington – “a mere pharmacist's apprentice and a veteran of only 11 battles in this conflict for our freedom.”

Arnold gave a nod towards Washington, to which Ben saw his commander return with equal measure before continuing with, “Now, of course, we cannot know who wrote this grubshite, but I would gamble that he is not equal to a commander who rides headlong into the fray and has never been shot. Or captured.”

Ben was done trying to hide his smile at just how Arnold was tearing apart Lee word by word as he saw a clear frown appear on Lee's face. It seemed that Bradford was also simmering beside his general, but dared not to contradict Arnold's words. Justice was being served, and Ben was enjoying every moment of it.

But it seemed that Arnold was not done, as the general's last words finally struck the gentleman's blow that Ben had been itching to do for a while, saying, “It is most definitely an endorsement by the Heaven and Earth of God if there ever was one.” The pamphlet was rather forcibly ripped apart and tossed to the ground.

“Here, here!” Ben heartily said, pounding a fist on the table in appreciation for the words and what Arnold did to Lee and the seditious pamphlet. He was quickly joined in by most of the others at the table, all except for three officers that included Lee and Bradford.

However, as soon as Washington held his hand up to stop the noise, Ben and the others stopped their actions as he turned slightly towards De Francy and gestured towards Arnold, saying, “Monsieur, may I introduce you to General Benedict Arnold.” Looking towards Arnold, Washington continued to say, “General, this is Thevenau De Francy of the French Intelligence.”

“Bonjour,” Arnold greeted.

“Will you join us?” the Frenchman asked.

As Ben saw the general's eyes roam around the table, looking for an empty seat, he realized that as the junior most officer here – Bradford having been promoted to Major a couple of months before he was promoted – he was able to provide a seat for the general. Pushing back his chair, he said, “Sir, please.” As he gestured towards his now empty seat, it did not escape his notice that Arnold had given him a shrewd look. “It's an honor, sir,” he truthfully answered, bowing his head slightly.

A moment later, the general moved from his position at the entrance to the dining room, limping slightly as Ben backed away. Giving Washington a nod, he then left the room as the murmurs started up again. As soon as he shut the door, he stepped to the side and leaned against the wall, curling both hands into fists of victory. With what Arnold had done to Lee in that dining room was sure to be whispered all over camp tonight and by morning, the damnable rumors and incendiary words from the pamphlet would be stopped.

Strolling down the hall, he worked his jaw slightly as the bruise and healing split lip that he had tugged in protest to the wide smile that he had been wearing for a while. Giving a nod to Hickey who stood at guard just before the entrance to the house, he opened the door and stepped out into the cool night. Taking a deep breath, he could feel his stomach rumble slightly, having only eaten the first course before he had given up his seat. It was no matter, for he was glad to have given up his seat – it was the least he could do for the man who finally had enough influence and rank to put down all the nasty rumors about Washington.

Headed over to where the 2nd Continentals were camped, he was delighted to find that a rather noisy festivity fueled by the still flowing ale was being had. As he grabbed an empty mug and filled it up, he found Caleb sitting next to the carts, watching some of the men dance to the jig that was currently being played. Clapping his friend on the back, he took a rather long swig of the ale in hand, reveling in the relaxing good mood that saturated the air. It definitely felt more alive and much more fun than attending an officers' dinner.

“Offend those inside, Benny-boy?” he heard Caleb half-shout over the din.

Shaking his head, he said, “Nah. General Arnold arrived. I gave up my seat for him.”

“Oh,” Caleb answered. “Sounds like you're trying a little too hard to make a good first impression, Tall-boy. Don't you remember what the ladies told us about Arnold?”

“I believe that he is a good man,” he answered, taking another sip before taking the offered slab of bread and cheese from Caleb's hand. Biting into what was now his dinner, he savored the taste of not-moldy cheese before chewing and swallowing. “Natalie has said that the future can change, and with all that has happened, I believe that Arnold can remain a good man. He won't become what he becomes in history – I'm going to make sure of it.”

“You'll probably have to wait in line for that, Tall-boy,” Caleb said, grinning as he too took a long drink of ale. “Carrie's just as determined as you to save Arnold from his fate.”

“What, really?”

“Yep. Apparently, she was quite impressed and infatuated with him ever since seeing him in action during that rally at Saratoga. Methinks that she may fancy herself as the next Mrs. Arnold.”

Ben could not help but laugh, but that died quite quickly as he saw that there was a seriousness in Caleb's eyes that did not match the jolly expression upon his face. “Wait, you're not serious, are you, Caleb?”

Caleb sighed before saying, “You should have seen her at Saratoga and on the way back down here. She would not stop talking about him. She's even worse than you, Ben, when it comes to the handsome, great, and magnificent Brigadier General Benedict Arnold.”

“I'm...I'm happy for her,” he could not help but say, taking a sip of his ale. He dared not say anymore, especially about the historical wife of Arnold, Peggy Shippen, for he did not know if that history was to happen anymore. His letter to Miss Shippen had not yet been completed, but with Washington's orders to take Robert Rogers and the other two to Setauket tonight, it would not be finished for another few days.

“Well, she's quite happy and now I know exactly how I'm going to feel whenever I get around to having children...especially daughters.”

This time, Ben did laugh and not a moment later, Caleb joined in. It took them a while to calm down, and as he finished the slab of bread and cheese, he heard his friend say, “It's so strange. It's like them women being here is a preparation for our lives after this war. I can't believe that I'm eventually going to have young ones running around my legs. Who will be my wife?”

“Someone probably as beautiful as Genevieve,” he answered, smiling as he took a swig of ale to help wash down the meal. “Maybe it is Genevieve.”

“Maybe,” Caleb answered, grinning. “You'd think we have time to swing by Elizabethtown on our way to Setauket?”

“Maybe on our way back,” he said. “Don't really feel like having Rogers and his ilk around us if I'm finally going to meet this mysterious Genevieve.”

“Ah yeah, good point, Benny-boy.” After a moment, Caleb asked, “So, ready to go?”

“Yeah,” he answered. “The sooner we deliver them to Setauket, the better I'll feel about this. Paulson and MacDonald are coming with us. Would you please get the horses and supplies ready? I'll make sure Rogers and the others are secured on the wagon.”

“Yep, will do.”

* * *

_The Big Apple (aka New York City)..._

 

“Ah thank you, Abigail,” Anna heard Major John Andre kindly say as the back alley door shut, enveloping her in the house's warmth. She unhooked her cloak and as she handed it to her former maid, she saw Andre nod towards Abigail before she bustled away. “Come,” Andre said, holding an arm out for her to take. “I'm delighted that you've accepted my invitation, though it is unfortunate that circumstances had to have you enter via the back alley entrance.”

“It is of no concern, Major,” she replied in kind as he escorted her to the dining room where Andre's assistant...agent... she didn't know what exactly Philomena was to Andre, was already present. Though the woman carried a smile on her face, Anna saw that it did not carry into her eyes. Those bejeweled pale eyes of hers were sharp and scrutinizing; Anna knew that she had to continue to be careful around that woman. “Though my husband and I are estranged now, I fear that he may still wield influence in circles and therefore, I wish not to taint you with his association.”

“And I do hope that you remember my dear Philomena,” Andre said as he nodded to her words, seating her at the table.

“Charmed,” she answered as Andre then seated the woman across from her before taking his own seat in between the two, at the head of the table.

Moment later, Anna saw Abigail enter with three plates of food and gently set them down in front of the three of them before going over to the tray of wines. She took a decanter of red over to them and poured them each a small glass before setting it back on the tray and disappeared. Not once did Anna see her make eye contact with her, and Anna merely affected a disinterested look until she disappeared from the dining room.

It had completely surprised her when Abigail had shown up in the nearest marketplace near the boarding house where she worked. She had impressed upon her a personal invitation from Major Andre, but had then quietly warned her that Andre did not usually invite civilians, only officers to personally dine with him. The fact that Hewlett had not been mentioned by Abigail in the invitation had initially made her apprehensive. However, that had passed fairly quickly as she realized the opportunity that had been presented – Philomena must have told Andre what she had told the woman during that particular dinner party. This was her way to help alleviate the burden upon Abigail, since she could no longer guarantee Abigail's son's safety at Setauket. She knew that Selah was not the kindest of men towards the slaves.

As the three of them ate with light conversations floating around them, mainly between her and Andre as Andre asked about her life in Setauket and how she was finding New York, it was only after the final course was done that the topic started to stray more towards the story that Anna had spun for Philomena. Anna had the stomach for wine and ale, but even she knew her limits and when Abigail poured a glass of port for her and the others, she only took a sip of it. She needed her head relatively clear enough to continue with the story.

“I couldn't help but hear that you've been assisting Major Hewlett in duties related to his work for me,” Andre said. “Tell me, how did you come by this?”

“Well, Major,” she began, smoothing her dress for a moment before looking back up, “it started with hearing about the ambush in Connecticut that Captain Simcoe was involved in. At that time, Hewlett was under pressure to discover who had betrayed the location, especially when a Robert Rogers arrived in town. I originally did not want to get involved, but working in a tavern that caters to men of all manner, I could not help but overhear certain seditious words being spoken. I took it upon myself to investigate, hoping that any information that could help Major Hewlett would eventually lead to my husband's release from the _Jersey_. My investigations led me to New York City and under the guise of retrieving my husband, it led me to your soiree. I do apologize for having entered in disguise as one of the 'flowers' that you ordered, but it was necessary.”

“But your husband, Mrs. Strong,” Andre said, nodding, “turns out he was a Patriot through and through, is that not true?”

“Yes,” she answered. “It was most unfortunate, and I do hope that his allegiance does not reflect upon me when you look at me. While I may not have sworn an oath of allegiance to the Crown as a few of my compatriots in Setauket have done, I do wish to continue to serve in the capacity that I do now. The boarding house that Major Hewlett has kindly found work for me in, is full of officers, but there are also a few civilians who board there from time to time. It is in this capacity that I hope to continue to gather information about potential Patriots within the city.”

She saw the major hold up a hand to stop her as he said, “I believe you, Mrs. Strong. I believed you the moment Hewlett told me how brave you were to tear yourself away from the overwhelming Patriot force at Setauket and rejoin your fellow Loyalists.” The major leaned forward slightly, placing his arms on the table as he folded his hands together, asking, “Now, I wasn't aware that Hewlett had you as an agent. Is he aware of the true capacity that you serve?”

Anna glanced down, hoping that the gesture was convincing as she looked back up after a moment, saying, “No. I have conversed with him from time to time, but not in a capacity that directly feeds him information. I fear that he might deter me from continuing this.”

“Ah, then we must keep it that way, for most do not think of women such as yourself or my Philomena here as effective espionage agents. If you are already not aware of the capacity that I serve Britain, I am the Head of British Intelligence. Hewlett is one of many commanders that I correspond with, but it is agents such as my Philomena here that I send out to gather details that officers may miss. If you are willing, Mrs. Strong, to not worry Hewlett, you may report details directly to me or pass information to Philomena whenever possible.”

Anna was stunned – she had expected something similar to this to happen, but to actually hear it was another. She opened her mouth for a moment before closing it, for her mind was still grappling with the implications of what she was about to embark upon. Not only would she have to divide her time between the boarding house duties and assisting Abe whenever he had messages ready, she would also have to ensure that Andre did not receive the true details of Abe's reports whenever she made her own. “I...I am truly grateful for the offer, Major Andre...”

“But you will need a few days to consider the offer,” he finished for her. “Quite understandable, Mrs. Strong, after all, this should not be taken lightly. I will give you a week to gather your thoughts and will send Philomena to your boarding house at the end of it.”

“Thank you, Major,” she said, hoping that the tone of her voice did not betray the sudden spell of nervousness that washed over her.

* * *

_The next day, somewhere in the Lower Hudson Valley River region..._

 

“Can we please gag him?”

Ben glanced over at Caleb who was giving him a pleading look. He glanced back at the wagon bearing Rogers and the other two of the Queen's Rangers who thus far, had been uncomfortably silent since they had started on this journey. Initially, Ben had wondered if the silence among the three men had been a result of their incarceration in the shed that Washington had transferred the three to somewhere during the time Ben had not been present at Morristown. However, an unsettled smile graced the face of Rogers since first light this morning, and despite wanting to do something about erasing that eerie smile, the man had not done anything to warrant any physical actions.

“We can't just gag the man, Caleb,” he answered. “He hasn't done anything--”

“Yet,” Caleb finished for him. “I mean, Natalie must be as uncomfortable as I am about them not being gagged. Any of them could scream for help at any time.”

Ben glanced back again but did not see anything other than a serene look upon Natalie's face as she guided her robotic donkey who was pulling the wagon. She was dressed in her Continental army regular outfit – and though the other two of Rogers' group had given her strange looks when light finally dawned this past morning as she gave them a rather rude wake up call by shouting in their ears, Rogers seemed to not have any reaction to her at all. It worried him, for though they had not been able to confirm whether or not Rogers had killed the future General Putnam, the fact that the man had not even deigned to respond in any such way to the fact that Natalie openly carried her blocky pistol worried him.

It had not been his idea to bring her along, especially on such a mission as this, but she had stubbornly insisted traveling with them and using her donkey to help transport the prisoners. She had then also quietly pointed out the fact that they were crossing bounds of neutral and disputed territories, while bringing such little amount of guards to keep from drawing undue attention, was fraught with danger. It went without saying that with the integration of British and Britannian forces, they needed someone who knew how Britannian forces moved and reacted – he had accepted the reasoning and did not book anymore argument.

Samantha and Brewster had not yet returned from their trip to Setauket when Ben and the others had departed from Morristown, but over the course of the night, Ben had seen Natalie pull out a small square instrument from within her robotic donkey that showed two small dots relative to where they were – the two women had taken a different route to return to Morristown. It had been a type of location reference using advance knowledge about gravity and what she had briefly mentioned as 'electro-magnetic fields'. He was fairly lost on the explanation, but understood that it worked relative to the poles of the Earth and that the robotic horses and her donkey radiated such a field that her small instrument was able to pick up certain changes.

Though Natalie had not elaborated after the short explanation, Ben implicitly understood that her donkey had been designed in a different manner than that of Samantha or Brewster's robotic horses. He was quite curious as to how each robotic beast differed from each other, but knew that that had to wait until they returned to Morristown. Though he was surprised at just how advanced their weaponry and logistical supplies were, he also knew that Britannia most likely also had the same advanced items at their own disposal – if not more.

“They haven't done anything,” he repeated, returning his attention back to the path. He did not want a repeat of the disastrous incident that happened last year while transporting Simcoe, and even as the still-unsettling smile graced Rogers' expression, he held his anger in check. Rogers only wanted him to start an incident, to give him an excuse to fight and potentially try to escape – Ben was not going to let that happen.

_Hee-haw._

In the silence that was only punctuated by the soft patter of leaves dripping rainwater to the ground from the shower that had briefly soaked the area a few hours earlier, along with the clomping sounds of the horses on the ground and squeaky wagon being pulled through the thick bed of leaves – that noise seemed so out of place, so _fake_ that it caused the tiny group to halt.

“What in the name...” he heard the black man murmur as he glanced back to see Natalie flushed in embarrassment; it had been her donkey who had made that awful noise.

_Hee-haw. Hee-haw._

That momentary silence was broken by Caleb who openly chuckled as Ben saw an exasperated look appear on Natalie's face as she muttered, “I'm swear, Carrie's going to get what's coming to her one of these days...”

“Problems, young lass?”

The smile abruptly died on Ben's face as tugged at his horse's reigns to turn it around and approached the wagon just as he heard Natalie answer Rogers's inquiry with, “Absolutely none that you should concern yourself with, Rogers. It's all taken care of.” Ben saw a small item, similar to the rectangular object she had shown him earlier being pulled out of a compartment in the left hindquarter of the donkey. While still eerie to watch something not natural being pulled out of a beast that was clearly only skinned in authenticity, Ben managed to ignore the slight chill creeping down his spine as the donkey's honks were killed in mid-honk.

“Everything all right?” he asked her, as he pulled his horse to a stop beside the wagon and gave Rogers a pointed look.

“Fine--”

“Bringing a lass with you, Tallmadge,” Rogers interrupted, “never thought that you'd be putting women in danger now. Admirable that she's in disguise...”

“She can take care of herself, Rogers,” he answered, narrowing his eyes slightly in annoyance. That particular comment was meant to goad him into anger, but it would take more than that for Ben to loose his calm. “It's yourself that you should be worried about, after all, I do hear that where we are headed may not be the most pleasant of places.”

“Still,” Rogers began before glancing around with a disinterested look for a few moments. “You wouldn't want this pretty lass' fate to be the same as your brother if we're caught--”

_Ptwot! Ptwot!_

Ben's horse immediately reared as musket balls pinged against the wagon, throwing him off. Painfully landing on the ground, as his helmet bounced away, he rolled to his side just as he heard the familiar _bzzt-bzzt_ noise sing through the air. His horse had galloped off in fear as he scrambled towards the wagon wheels, feeling heated mud fly into the air and land with a hiss on the ground where he had just been a moment ago.

Something small, spherical, and golden washed across his eyes, just as he made it to the nearest wagon wheel as the _bzzt-bzzt_ noise tracked over to his right and towards a tree. He pulled out his pistol, which had thankfully, not been dislodged from its holster when he had fallen. Glancing up and to his right, he saw Caleb scramble behind a tree, just as blue-bolts impacted the wet bark, sending hisses of smoke into the air. Looking over to his left, he saw Paulson sliding down a small embankment on the path to take cover, and MacDonald also barely making it to another tree for his own cover.

He heard a grunt next to him and saw Natalie haul herself under the cover of the back wheel, her own blocky pistol out. Her eyes looked like they were set in stone as she curtly stated, “Rogers and the other two are protected.”

He glanced up to see that indeed, there was a rather strange golden spherical shield wrapped around the top of the wagon. From the angle he was staring at, he thought he saw Rogers' form still ducking into the wagon. Ignoring the cowardly movement, he took a quick glance out from his position behind the wheel. Up on the small ridge, there was only one ambusher, dressed in civilian clothing who was spitting at Caleb's position with a blocky rifle. He thought he saw movement from five other trees and glimpses of mottled brown colors – movement that correlated to Rangers most likely serving with the British army. He didn't know if they were Queen's Rangers or not, but it didn't matter; what mattered now was that they had been ambushed and if he wanted to survive, they needed to kill their ambushers.

“Six in the trees, three on the left, three on the right, with one of them on the left holding position on Caleb,” he whispered to Natalie. “What's the range and accuracy of that pistol?”

“At this range, nothing except for covering fire,” she answered.

“Good enough,” he said. “On my count, aim for the one with the rifle, he's the one nearest to the center of our position.”

“Copy that,” she said, as he heard a brief whine issue from her pistol.

Catching Caleb's eyes as he saw his friend shift slightly behind the now dangerously smoking tree, he gestured with a hand towards the right hand area of the ridge and received a nod in return. Looking over to his left, he caught MacDonald's eyes and made the same gesture except towards the left of the ridge. He saw the man glance down towards where he could only assume Paulson was hiding, making a some movement with his hands, before MacDonald looked back and nodded.

Bracing himself against the wheel, he tucked his pistol close to him as he took a breath and let it go. “Three...two...one!”

Just as he launched out from under the cover of the wagon, the close buzzing sound of Natalie's pistol rang across his ears as he sprinted across the path and up the ridge. In the brief momentary break of fire from the enemy rifle as its owner ducked behind cover, he slipped onto his back and slid on the muddy ground but quickly recovered and threw himself behind the cover of a rather broad base of a tree half-way up the ridge, just as two musket balls from the enemy marksmen thumped against the bark of his tree. Seconds later, the whine of Caleb's rifle filled the air as it sang in tune with Natalie's pistol, giving Ben the momentary opportunity to duck out of his cover and fire his pistol at the nearest enemy Ranger who had tried to duck back into cover against the hail of blue-bolts.

He had caught the fleeing glimpse of both Paulson and MacDonald felling two more enemy Rangers across from where he was situated as he ducked back into cover. He smelled smoke and heard the sound of an angry swarm of blue-bolts peppering his position as he calmly but quickly reloaded his pistol. Two more reports of rifles firing their musket balls rang through the air.

The moment he was ready, he glanced down towards where he saw Caleb firing quite indiscriminately into the ridge, pinpointing the general area where the enemy was. From his vantage point, he couldn't see where Natalie was, but he could see the spit of blue-bolts issuing from a corner of the wagon. He caught Caleb's quick glance at him before the covering fire stopped and just as he turned to the right and popped out from the base of the tree, he glanced up to see the rifleman also swing himself out of cover.

Ben fired his pistol.

The rifleman tumbled down the ridge, head over heels and slid on the wet leaves, just as he glanced to his right to see a single blue-bolt lance into the enemy Ranger nearest to him. The Ranger fell flat onto his face, rifle monetarily bouncing on the ground while smoke issued from the discharged pistol. Not a moment later, the report of two pistols being discharged drew his attention towards where Paulson and MacDonald were – dealing with the final enemy.

Silence briefly filled the area before Ben saw Natalie climb up the ridge from where she had shot the Ranger. He also saw Caleb making his way up the ridge, and waited for both of them to catch up to where he was before the three of them approached the dead body of the civilian-dressed enemy who had been wielding the blocky rifle.

A glazed, faraway yet slightly surprised look was frozen in death upon the young soldier's face, and Ben unconsciously balled one of his hands into a fist as he holstered his pistol, not bothering to reload it at the moment. Turning his head slightly away, he briefly closed his eyes in despair. The disguised soldier was just a boy, most likely no older than fifteen or sixteen – still too young to have experienced life just yet.

It was the slight _clink_ of something small and metal hitting another small metal object that forced his eyes open again as he saw that Natalie had crouched down beside the boy and was in the midst of withdrawing a chain with identification plates from within the boy's clothes. She gave a forceful yank on the chain, breaking it and stood back up. “Juhani Sheridan,” she murmured as she took a close look at the plates, frowning. “He was the youngest intern we've had back at the Ministry and had been assigned to shadow Andrew Strong before the rebellion began. He was being trained for wetwork operations.”

“Wetwork operations?” Caleb questioned.

“Assassinations,” she stated.

“Christ, Natalie. Just how young does this Ministry of Intelligence start recruitment?” Ben heard disbelief within Caleb's tone as his friend asked his question.

“Sheridan was thirteen,” she quietly answered. “Statistics have shown that the best wetwork operatives are usually those who are orphans. When rebellion broke out, Andrew chose his side, so did Sheridan. I would have thought him smarter than to lay such an ambush such as this, but his being here is strange.” She crouched down yet again and this time, searched the inner pockets of the jacket that the boy wore, but found nothing. “I don't recognize the uniforms that the others are wearing.

“Rangers,” he finally spoke up, finding his voice again. “Not the Queen's Rangers though – their outfits aren't that of what Rogers and his ilk wear.”

Turning from the scene, he made his way back down and as he passed by one of the fallen Rangers, he roughly snatched the dark blue cap with a single brown feather stuck in the middle of the cap off of the man's head. When he got to the wagon, he looked around and finally saw the small blinking, flatly circular object that had been placed against the side of the wagon that had provided a small spherical shield of sorts around Rogers and the other two. Yanking the object off, he heard a faint dying whine in the air as the spherical shield fizzled.

Before Rogers or any of his companions could say a word, Ben climbed up and into the wagon's front seat and shoved the cap in the man's face, demanding, “Who commands this Ranger unit?”

“Ah...” was all Rogers said as Ben glared at him. “You're becoming quite the nuisance with all this surviving Ranger ambushes, young pup.” However, before Ben could take any further action, Rogers raised his chained arms slightly, “I know not who commands that unit, boy.”

“Oy, Ben!” he heard Caleb shout as felt the wagon shift slightly with Caleb climbing half-way up. “We best get going. Don't know if more'll be coming.”

Glancing up and past Rogers, he saw that Paulson and MacDonald had retrieved all four horses and were readying themselves to depart. Knowing that his friend's words rang true for they were in disputed territory and that the shots fired during the ambush could most likely be heard for miles, he conceded the lack of answer from Rogers. However, that did not stop him from leveling the man with another angry look as he shoved the cap into his jacket before turning and hopping off the other side of the wagon.

Murmuring his thanks to MacDonald who brought him his horse and helmet, he stepped up into the stirrup and swung himself back up and over, doing his damnest to ignore the pain that lanced up and down the side he had fallen on when he had been thrown off his horse. Securing his helmet on his head, he looked over to see Caleb also swing himself up on his own horse while Natalie had climbed back onto the wagon and moments later, Ben signaled for them to continue on. The sooner they got to Setauket, the better he would feel... and also hopefully get some answers.

* * *

_Northern New York City_

 

By the time redcoats had been called to the scene, Robert had seen all that he needed to see by those who had discovered the bodies. As he continued to stand in the shadows of the alleyway closest to the scene of the murders, a crowd was already gathering but he could imagine the still shocked expressions that not only Anna Strong, but also Abraham Woodhull, Woodhull's wife, and Judge Woodhull wore. Those four knew of the two men who had been mysteriously slain.

Their bodies were currently being wrapped up in cloth and he could hear the distant creak of a wagon pulled by a horse approaching. While he knew that it should be of no concern to him, he had seen Woodhull approach the area where he had requested him to investigate the well. He had heard Anna's pleas for him to organize his compatriots to search for Woodhull when it became apparent that he had gone missing. He had nearly agreed to Anna's plea, but then miraculously, Woodhull had turned up near the main street where he hung out, covered in cuts and spinning a story that he had been mugged and tried to fight back.

While it seemed that everyone around Woodhull had brought into the story, including Anna, whom he saw had more than just a passing concern for the young farmer, Robert did not. Woodhull's story was quite simple and solid, but something in Robert's guts told him that Woodhull had actually gone down into that well and found something – after all, Robert had had his men clear the area around where the Great Fire had stopped so that Woodhull would not be accosted... at least not by the poor and homeless. By the wealthy and British, that was something that he did not have the means to prevent. He had wanted to confront the farmer about his discoveries, but to do so when Woodhull was supposed to be resting after such a terrible ordeal would only put Robert himself in danger.

Redcoats were still hunting for him, and he still had not found an answer as to the reason – only that they accused him of being a Patriot when he originally had no leanings. His father shared ideals with the Patriots, called himself a Whig, but only last winter, that was not enough to send a man to jail. His father had never antagonized any person and sought to keep his political leanings quiet. Now...now, he was on the run for being a son of a man who only wanted to live out his life in Oyster Bay. He dared not surrender himself for it seemed that the redcoats were not going to show him any mercy, and so he waited, plotted, and gathered those of his like mind around the city.

Tearing his eyes away from the crowd, he cast his eyes over the row of houses with their small patches of farmland. The boarding house for the northern garrison officers was close to where Woodhull lived, and though he had seen the commander of the garrison, Major Hewlett as he had learned, be quite nice to Anna, Robert could not help but worry for her safety. It seemed that she took care of herself quite well, owing mostly to her days working in a rowdy tavern, but in the city, the demeanor of men were different and less provincial.

He had mostly tailed Anna whenever she was out on her errands, but now with Woodhull potentially hiding something about the well, he would have to divide his time. Perhaps one of his other trusted informers, Philip or young Joshua would do the honors of ensuring that Anna was safe whenever she ventured out into the city – after all, both men seemed to admire her quite a lot.

As his looked back towards the gathered crowd, there was a movement out of the corner of his eyes. Looking up towards Woodhull's home, he thought he saw a shadow of a figure _climbing_ the side of the building. Alarm jolted him into action as he slipped further into the alleyway before turning and running down into another until the layers of buildings and their tiny routes brought him close to Woodhull's home without any redcoats around to see him. As he rounded the bend, still keeping to the shadows, he caught a glimpse of a figure, dressed in dark clothing carefully climb out of Woodhull's window. However, before he could dash to the other side of the alleyway to get a better look, the figure quickly disappeared.

Robert checked both ends of the alleyway, but did not venture past it to approach Woodhull's home – it was much too exposed to where the scene of the crime was, and someone in the crowd was bound to notice him lurking there if he showed himself. Puzzled as to what that mysterious figure was on or about, he looked back up towards the window, noting that it was closed. However, with no way to warn Woodhull about a potential intrusion into his home, he could only resolve to keep a closer eye on the farmer.

* * *

“Thomas, where's Thomas?”

“Here, ma'am.”

Abe absently patted his wife's shoulders as she turned from her seat and took their son from the servant's hands. Cooing at his son for a moment, he stepped away to allow the servant to return with a hot kettle of water and pour each of them a generous amount of tea. As he sat down, staring at the crackling fire that burned in the dining room, he heard his father pick up his cup of tea and quietly sip it.

“Well, I think we know what might have happened to the other two men,” he quietly said after a moment. It was shocking, really, to see two people that he had known all of his life, dead on the streets with their throats slit and eyes gouged out. People were still decrying the murder of the two Setauket men, though they did not know that the two were from Setauket, as the Devil's work. However, Abe had a strong feeling that he knew who was behind the murders, and damn the populace and their ignorance, he could not say a word about it unless he wanted to sound like a madman.

There was also the fact that it had been Mary of all people, who had discovered the grisly scene out in the streets. She had not fainted at the sight of such a scene, but Abe had noticed that she was holding onto Thomas a lot tighter than she usually did. He wanted to comfort her, to tell her that it was going to be fine, but after what the future-Simcoe had stated in his parting words, comforting words to her seemed to stick in his throat. He hadn't tried to confront her yet, and he did not know how to even broach the subject without his father knowing.

“Who...how could anyone do such a thing?” he heard his father murmur more to himself than to anyone in the room as he sipped his tea. “After your mugging, now this...”

“They're not related,” he quickly said. “I was near what's left of the buildings after the Great Fire, father. These two men...they're from Setauket. They were clearly brought here and then somehow murdered.”

“But by who?”

“British soldiers?”

“Abraham,” his father warned.

Abe fell silent – it had not been the correct thing to say, and he knew that he was treading a very fine line by accusing British soldiers of murdering two men. But if the murderer could not be found--

There was a rapid knock on their front door, causing Abe to jump slightly before he recovered himself and scrambled up. “Coming!” he shouted. Opening the door, he blinked in surprise at who was standing at the entrance. “Uh, Major Hewlett,” he greeted.

“Mr. Woodhull,” Hewlett answered with a grim look upon his face.

“Uh, please, come in,” he said, stepping back to allow the garrison commander to enter.

“Richard,” Hewlett said as he entered and nodded towards Abe's father. “Mrs. Woodhull.”

“Major,” Mary answered, while Thomas merely cooed.

As Abe closed the door and joined them in the dining room, he saw Hewlett step back to seemingly include all of them in what he was about to say. The major reached into his left jacket pocket and pulled out two pieces of folded parchment and unfolded them. Laying them on the table, Abe noticed the words scrawled upon them and when read side-by-side, he felt a chill go down his spine.

_[I told you.] [I would release two.]_

There was no signature on the pieces of parchment, but Hewlett spoke up, saying, “I wanted all of you to see this first, since it is not only all of you, but also I who recognized the two men. Mrs. Strong will also bear witness to these two pieces of parchment and I will be relaying to her what I tell you. Each man carried a separate piece of parchment upon them, but the handwriting is the same – this is Captain Simcoe's handwriting.”

“Simcoe?” Abe's father exclaimed, quite alarmed. “Didn't you arrest him?”

“Yes, yes we did, Richard,” Hewlett answered. “Unfortunately, after we arrived, High Command saw fit to hand him over to Captain Falsworth, that other man who was with me at that time. I know not where he has been for all these months, but I can tell you for certain that I saw Captain Simcoe two nights ago, riding out with fourteen other men towards the north. As much as I hate that man, the fact that the bodies of the two men were not present in the streets until this morning tells me that it is not him.”

“So... what now?” Abe asked, keeping the alarm as best as he could out of his voice. The future-Simcoe had been utterly correct about his own counterpart's departure out of New York City.

“I do not want to alarm you, but I would like to post at least two guards here at your entrance for the time being. We do not know how the murders of these Setauket men might tie into those who evacuated from Setauket--”

“Please Major, if you would allow me,” he interrupted him, holding a hand up.

Dashing out of the room as he heard the protests of his father fade, and up the stairs, he entered his bedroom and approached the side of the bed that was nearest to the window. Crouching down, he lifted up the small hidden space in between the floorboards underneath the bed. However, as he reached into the space, instead of brushing the leather-bound notebook that sat on top of the pistol he kept safe there, there was a piece of folded parchment that sat on top of it. He didn't recall leaving a piece of parchment there and so took it out.

A cold feeling swept through his stomach as he stared at the unfolded parchment. It was a rather detailed sketch of an asp being sunk into a neck. With the sunlight shining through the window, he noticed that there were markings on the back of the parchment and turned it, only to see that it was the detailed numbers of troops and ships garrisoned in New York.

The sounds of footsteps climbing the stairs snapped him out of his fugue as he quickly put the parchment back into the hole and yanked his pistol out. Replacing the cover, he quickly stood back up just as he saw his father peek into the bedroom. “Abraham,” his father groaned, noticing the pistol in his hand.

“Ensign Baker gave it to me as soon as we arrived,” he explained as he left the room and assisted his father in getting back down the stairs. As they entered the room, Abe let his father go and placed the pistol on the table. Mary's eyes went slightly wide, but it was Hewlett who gave him a pointed look. “Ensign Baker took this off of Simcoe when we arrived. He gave it to me. Major, please let your men know that while we appreciate their protection, I will also be defending my family should the worse happen.”

“Ah, I see,” Hewlett answered.

“After what happened in Setauket, the vices of the city may be a little more dangerous than the town we lived in,” he said, masking all nervousness, fear, and despair that threatened to overwhelm him. The message from the future-Simcoe was clear: he and his family were completely at the mercy of that man. He was compromised, but with that thought came another; he was also determined to find a way to use that to his advantage.

* * *

_Setauket_

 

“Oy! Special delivery!” Ben heard Caleb holler as they entered the outskirts of the camp in the thick woods. He saw heads poke out of broadly green-grey tents that seemed to blend and not blend into the trees. People at the campfires that dotted the garrison camp looked up and waved, and while Caleb enthusiastically waved back, he gave a short one, for he did not know any of the people they were passing.

It seemed that Caleb knew where to go for he took the lead and guided the five-man group with their cart of three prisoners towards the heart of the forest. Ben halted his horse as Caleb did when they saw a familiar face emerge from one of the same types of tents as the others camped here. He could not help but smile as he saw his counterpart with a mildly surprised look upon his face – though it was his counterpart's face that had him taking a second, closer look.

“Sir, I think you're most definitely going against regulation with that beard,” Natalie spoke up before Ben could say a word as to the bushy, wheat-colored beard that graced his counterpart's face. While not as long or as thick as Caleb's own beard, it looked very odd indeed.

“What, you guys don't like it either?” he heard his counterpart defensively say as Ben swung himself off of his horse, ignoring the lingering pain from his earlier fall and removed his helmet, placing it on the horn of his saddle.

“Erm,” he began as he glanced up and over to see Natalie shaking her head in a sharp manner.

“Well,” Caleb began, as he too dismounted, nodding his head in a slightly sympathetic manner, “it does make it easier for me to differentiate between you and Tall-blue-boy here...”

“Thank you,” his counterpart exclaimed. “Finally...” His counterpart clapped his hands together and dispensed with that matter by approaching the wagon, to which Natalie had jumped off from and had rounded to the back to unlatch the wagon gate.

Ben stepped up next to his counterpart, offering a grim smile as he heard Rogers say, “Well, well... two Tallmadge boys.”

“What devilry is this?” the black man murmured, looking around with wide eyes as members of the 2nd Legionnaires formed a ring around the wagon and horses. All members were wearing the camouflage BDUs with their rifles slung in a casual fashion over their shoulders. Some were also holding mugs or bowls of food, but all of them had curious looks on their faces.

“This is the United States Army 2nd Legionnaires, Mr...” Ben heard his counterpart start but tilt his head slightly to the side in puzzlement.

“Akinbode,” the man stated.

“Mr. Akinbode,” Tallmadge stated before gesturing slightly towards a couple of the enlisted, saying, “Gregorie, Harlansen, please take Robert Rogers, Mr. Akinbode, and...” The native remained silent and merely glared at all of them. “And the Silent One to a tent and see that they are accommodated as appropriately.”

“Yes, sir,” the enlisted man and woman answered as Ben saw the two guide the three captives down from the wagon and gestured with their rifles for Rogers and his men to move. It did not escape his notice that as soon as his counterpart had mentioned Rogers' name, eyes around the gathered had lit up in surprise and in excitement. He hearkened back to Brewster's words about Rogers when they had captured him all those months ago – and oddly enough, just seeing such adoration in those men and women's eyes made him slightly uneasy. Just leaving Rogers here made him even more uneasy and he did not know why.

“Well, that was more subdued than I expected,” he heard his counterpart say. “I thought Rogers would be a lot... chattier...”

“We were ambushed,” he spoke up. “On our way here, we were ambushed by a small Ranger unit that contained an embedded Britannian agent.”

“Juhani Sheridan,” Natalie spoke up, pulling the identification chain taken from the boy's body out of the inner pocket of her jacket.

The humorous expression on Tallmadge's face disappeared in an instant and was replaced by a set, no-nonsense look as Ben heard him stated, “My tent. Debrief.”

As Caleb and Natalie followed his counterpart to the tent, Ben gestured for MacDonald and Paulson to take care of the horses before he caught up with them. As he entered the tent, he was not surprised at just how austere it looked, but he was midly surprised at just how organized everything in the tent was. There was a table on one side of the tent, covered in maps and what looked like stacks of written reports – similar to how his own tent looked, while a few crates and sacks sat near the back of the tent, piled near his counterpart's neatly folded cot.

He saw his counterpart pull the single chair that had been at the table away as the four of them stood around it. Natalie dropped the identification plates onto the table while Ben reached inside of his jacket and pulled out the dark blue cap with the brown feather quite mashed against it. He placed it beside the plates. “It was five Rangers wearing these caps with that Britannian agent who ambushed us. The boy was the only one wielding one of those blocky rifles.”

Tallmadge picked up the cap and looked carefully at it for a moment before stating, “Sheridan's Rangers. I thought they were a ghost story...”

“Oh, as if this could get any better,” Caleb sarcastically quipped, “now we have people coming from the future _and_ ghosts...”

“Not related to Juhani Sheridan, are they?” Natalie asked, as Ben refrained from elbowing Caleb in the side.

“Related, possibly, but the Sheridan name spans many generations and descendants,” his counterpart explained. “I'm not the only one who thought they were a ghost story. Supposedly, in history, when Rogers's Queen's Rangers deemed unreliable during the war, there was a second, equally dangerous Ranger unit working with British forces. They were known as Sheridan's Rangers. Myth persisted that the Rangers escaped into Canada when peace was sued and throughout the centuries, rumors persisted that this particular unit never disbanded or declared allegiance to either the United States government or to the Canadian one.

“We even discussed this myth while I was studying at Westpoint. However, there was that one time two years prior in our time that I thought the myth was true. Despite my best efforts, I never did discover what exactly had taken out the entirety of Hotel Company, but from what Echo Company and I saw, all we found were pieces of caps that were this color with a brown feather stuck in the center.”

“Then could they have recruited Juhani Sheridan into their ranks?” Natalie asked.

Tallmadge was silent for a few long moments before saying, “Possibly. Or he joined of his own free will and was transported here, accidental or deliberately we don't know yet – in which whoever is currently in command of that ghost unit in this era of time was a fool.”

“What?” Ben questioned, though a very apprehensive feeling was sinking down into his stomach.

“That ambush was an attempted assassination,” Natalie quietly stated. “They sent a boy who does not know how to command a small unit of Rangers, much less work with anyone else yet, to assassinate Caleb and Ben here so that you, Sam, and Carrie will not exist.”

“It would have been much easier for them to go after civilians,” he heard his counterpart say before catching his eyes looking back and forth between him and Caleb. “Your wives...or will-be wives whom I'm presuming to be civilians. And before either of you ask, no we do not remember who they were. You'd be asking us to know every single detail of four hundred years of history, and frankly I don't have the memory capacity to even remember details such as that.”

“Well,” he heard Natalie state after a moment of uncomfortable silence. “At least the attempt was foiled. If Britannia or British forces try to go after civilian populations, they know that it will make them deeply unpopular, so I believe that they might stick to more attempts on the major players of the revolution's lives.”

“Well, nice to know that I now have a confirmed big fat target on my back that says 'shoot me here you arseholes!'” Caleb spoke up. “I think its high time I acquired an actual bounty on my head.”

“Caleb,” Ben groaned, shaking his head slightly.

“What?” his friend answered. “Doom and gloom still ain't going to stop me, Tall-boy. Don't let it stop you either. We got bigger things to worry about...you know like saving General Arnold from his fate, and Bradford being a dick, and that rather wordy pamphlet going around camp...”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Ben could not help but smile slightly as he heard his counterpart chuckle while Natalie muttered, “Christ on a pony, they've already influenced each others' vocabulary...”

Sighing, he said, “We'll see what we can do.”

“That's the spirit!”

~~~

“You look like you need a drink.”

Ben blinked as he looked up from staring into the campfire, and straight into a mug that sloshed with something that smelled quite sharp. The arm that was holding the alcohol was none other than his counterpart who seemed to have something tucked underneath his other arm while also holding onto a second mug. Accepting the mug, he heard his counterpart sit on the log beside him before placing a checkered board on the ground between them.

As he watched his counterpart take out a small pouch and started arranging pieces for a game of draughts, he glanced down at the mug and sniffed the liquid. It smelled sweet and sharp but when he took a sip and swallowed, he couldn't help but cough. The alcohol burned its way down his throat, and he could feel it pool into his stomach. “What is this?” he managed to hoarsely say as he continued to cough to try to clear the sensation from his throat.

“Something the NCOs brewed up during harvest season,” Tallmadge answered. “Strong and kills a lot of brain cells.”

“Brain cells?”

“Ah, nevermind. It just makes all of us feel better whenever we're missing home.”

Ben nodded before gesturing to the set board, saying, “Your move.”

“Generous,” was the challenging reply before the first piece was shifted on the board.

The two of them moved their pieces along the board for a while in silence, with the occasional sip of the rather strong alcohol breaking the silence. However, as soon as Ben found an opening to take two of his counterpart's pieces and scrapped them from the board, he said, “I heard from Samantha that Setauket is gone in your time. Please accept my sincere condolences on your loss.”

“Thanks,” his counterpart answered. “The fact that we were able to save and take Setauket now helps. But if you heard from Sammie about Setauket, I'm sure she's told you about our family, right?”

“A little,” he answered as he shifted another offensive piece into the open space between his defensive line and his counterpart's advancing line.

“They supported Britannina rule,” Tallmadge quietly said. “Every one of the family, including extended ones except for myself, Sammie, and Sammie's mother. Sir, there's something you need to know about my family now that we've found physical proof of the existence of Sheridan's Rangers in this era. I didn't want to mention this in front of Natalie or Caleb, and I'm asking you to please keep this to yourself – Sammie and Carrie don't know this either.”

Ben paused mid-sip and spat the alcohol back into the mug as he looked up in surprise. “It was Sheridan's Rangers who razed Setauket, wasn't it?” he asked.

“Yes,” his counterpart said, nodding. “Like I told you earlier, the Sheridan family was and still is extensive, but I know for a fact that many of them are extended family members serving in that ghost unit. My mother marked me as a member of that extended family one when she penned her maiden name as my middle name on my birth certificate. She wrote to me once while I was at Westpoint, and it was through that letter that I found out that she had been a Sheridan Ranger. And when the 2nd Legionnaires joined the rebellion, they were tasked to hunt us down. The loss of Hotel Company was a result of the one and only skirmish that we were engaged in.”

“So this war... this... it's more than personal, its a family affair,” he said after a moment.

“Yeah... it is.”

“Is this why you wanted Robert Rogers and the Queen's Rangers?” he asked.

“That is among the reasons why, but not entirely the main reason,” Tallmadge answered.

“Then let me tell you something about Rogers,” he said, keeping his voice low but allowing the anger he felt through. “He and his men slaughtered my patrol group last year. Then he had the gall to pose Selah Strong as my dead brother in order to set a trap for me. In that trap, he nearly killed Caleb and Selah. If any man deserves a hanging right now, he does.”

“What was the route of your group?” Tallmadge asked. “What areas did they cover?”

“Southeastern New Jersey, from the coast to the Delaware River. We were finishing up our patrol and on our way to meet up with General Lee,” he answered. “Why?”

He saw his counterpart hesitate for a moment before saying, “General Lee is a traitor.”

Ben was silent for a few long moments as he glanced down at the draughts game that had been long abandoned. As for the alcohol in his mug, it no longer looked appetizing enough to drink and he set it to the side. “May I safely assume that you've already informed Washington about this in your correspondences to him?”

“Yes,” Tallmadge testily answered. “And he doesn't believe me. I have no proof because I cannot relate a particular battle where proof is shown since it has not and will most likely not happen. The Battle of Monmouth happened because Britain took Philadelphia when Washington was defeated at Brandywine. With the victory at Brandywine, the Continentals still have Philadelphia and Monmouth will most likely never happen. I do not have any proof that Lee is a traitor.”

“Well, then,” he said, giving his counterpart a humorless smile, “it looks like we both have our work cut out.”

“Sir, I sincerely apologize for the fact that you cannot avenge the deaths of your men at Rogers's hands, but I promise you, his being here will not be in vain.”

Ben picked up the mug of alcohol again and took a sip before setting it back down. “No, but promise me this, Tallmadge. If you turn Rogers to the side of the Continentals, I want him unleashed on this ghost of a Ranger group... these Sheridan's Rangers.”

“I was going to go after the ghost Rangers,” Tallmadge stated. “Rogers, if he turns, was to be sent after Captain Simcoe. We've heard rumors that there is a possible cavalry group being led by someone matching Simcoe's description running amok near the northern borders of New York state, Connecticut, and Massasschusetts. In their current incarnation, Sheridan's Rangers, were already a deadly force. If integrated with Britannian forces, as shown by their possible recruitment of MI6 agent, Juhani Sheridan, then both eastern Long Island and coastal Connecticut are in grave danger.”

“Most of the 2nd Light are wintering at Albany,” he said as he saw his counterpart resume the game of draughts by moving a piece. “If they can be spared come spring, I can send them down to assist you in the hunt.”

“No,” his counterpart said, shaking his head slightly. “Keep them near Washington at all times. Even if history is already changing, there will be threats to his life, as there is to yours. I heard about Thomas Hickey, and I know that Natalie has been keeping a close eye on him, but there will be more than just him in the attempt to take Washington's life.”

“I will guard against that. There is also a new codebook that was delivered to Culper a few days ago,” he said, frowning. If it were not seditious words written by cowards on pamphlets that threatened the leadership of his general, there was now the weight of probable assassination attempts. “I had already entertained the idea that Culper needed extra protection while in the city. I have a copy of it for you too.”

“Oh, so I get to be John Bolton Junior and you're John Bolton Senior?” Tallmadge asked.

“John Bolton?”

“Ah... your alias, that you eventually use... I guess you didn't think of one yet.”

“No, not particularly,” he answered, moving a piece on the board. “However, I would not be adverse to using the name.”

“Ah good,” Tallmadge said before moving a piece to take three of Ben's pieces, landing said piece on the back. “King me.”

He obliged but then moved his own piece to take four of his counterpart's pieces, and ended up in a mirrored configuration. “And me.”

“I think this might end in a draw.”

“As do I.”

~~~

Morning in the autumn season at Setauket was always chilly, but despite the cool breeze blowing in from the Sound, Ben did not feel chilly at all. Though he had slept fitfully, he was not tired and with his horse stamping the ground impatiently, he found himself ready to return to Morristown. He could only speculate the reason why he did not miss his hometown so dearly was all due to the fact that Robert Rogers was here, and wherever that man was present, soured his mood.

“Hey, Benny-boy, look what I got! Rum from the West Indies!” he heard Caleb shout as he looked over to see his friend approach with a dark bottle sloshing with liquid. He couldn't help but smile as he saw him stash it away in one of his saddlebags before mounting his horse. “Came in through Sag Harbor a few days ago,” Caleb said.

Looking back and around, he saw that the rest of them were ready to depart, with the wagon unhitched from Natalie's donkey. The wagon would be left here. Though she sat in her donkey, looking quite short in between the taller MacDonald and Paulson, there was a twinkle in her eyes that he saw – she knew just how amusing the sight was.

“Sir!” Ben heard his counterpart call out as he looked beyond his two men and her to see him running up to him with a small sack in his hands. “Before I forget,” his counterpart said. “Here's letters for Sammie from her many admirers in Philadelphia. I forgot to give this to her when she and Carrie stopped by a couple of days ago, so please... give this to her.”

Ben took the sack and could not help but openly gape at just how _heavy_ it was. “That's a lot of letters...”

“Yeah,” his counterpart agreed. “I think she did that to spite me. But, do tell her that the next letters I get from her admirers are going to be burned. I don't need to further scar my eyes or mind on their love letters to her.”

“Tell me you didn't mistaken them for encoded messages, did you Tall-green-boy?” Caleb chortled. The look upon Ben's counterpart's face told the story, and in between laughs, Ben heard his friend say, “Tall-girl needs to hear about this.”

“Don't worry,” he said, giving his counterpart a sympathetic smile. “I'll let her know about the fate of her other letters.”

Moments later, with the sack secured next to a saddlebag, he gave a small kick to the side of his horse and started off. With Caleb's laughter still ringing in his ears, as they went from a trot through the camp and into a full gallop as they emerged from the forest, he glanced back to see that Natalie was keeping pace with her donkey. Returning his attention to the front as they tore through the flatlands of Long Island, they were headed towards a cove near Oyster Bay where they would take the whaleboats back to coastal Connecticut. They would then carve a quick path through the disputed territory of the Lower Hudson Valley, crossing near Nyack before swinging their way towards Morristown in a northwest arc.

Four horses and one robotic donkey – they were small, but they were fast – and they carried news for Washington.

 

~*~*~*~


	8. “Q” Branch, Est. 1777

**Chapter 8: “Q” Branch, Est. 1777**

 

For the first time in a long while, Ben thought he felt a tiny portion of the burdens placed upon his shoulders disappear as he carried a folded letter in his right hand. It was unmarked on the outside, but it was a very important piece of information that caused that small portion of his burden to be alleviated. It was what he hoped would be the first of many important intelligence reports to come from New York City – from Abe.

Giving a nod to the two guards outside of the house – Hickey and Lawrent – he entered the house and shut the door behind him. As he passed by the first room in the house – his former office before it had been converted for usage by other higher-ranking officers – he saw something odd out of the corner of his eyes. Stopping, he backtracked a couple of steps and looked into the room.

Natalie and her counterpart were sitting across from one another at one of the many tables and desks in the room, and were engaged in a chess match. It was a very odd sight to see, and even though there were no other officers currently in the room, he could not help but wonder how long had the match been going. The majority of the pieces were not on the board and beyond the two of them and their game was a rather enormous stack of reports or letters. He could only assume that those were part of whatever 'bet' had been laid down between the two, for there were no other stacks out in the open in the room.

Deciding that disturbing the match was not of his or their own best interest, he resumed walking down the hall until he arrived at Washington's office. “Sir,” he began, catching his commander's attention from the small topographical map that was laid out on the left side of the table. “Intelligence from Culper.”

Washington's eyes lit up as he took the folded letter from him and quickly opened it. As Ben saw his commander's eyes move back and forth throughout the entire letter, a smile eventually appeared on Washington's face before the letter was suddenly put down. He saw him move to the other map, where there were at least two Kings from a chess set, one black the other white, sitting on top of the map. Near the pieces were two empty goblets, though Ben was not sure if they were part of the actual positioning of troops on the map or there to weigh it down. A small magnifier was sitting next to its square box was weighing down the top part of New York City map.

“It seems our Culper Ring is alive and well,” he heard Washington murmur as he watched his commander consult the decoded letter for a moment. “Four frigates: 36-gun _Meridian_ , 32-gun _Groton_ , 32-gun _Integrity_ , and 28-gun _Sybil_ moored at Peck's Slip--” four red, thin wedges were moved along the lower east side of the city map “--and two 18-gun sloops _Tobaego_ and _Amaranthe_.”

As giddy as his commander was, Ben could not bring himself to feel as excited as he did – yes the intelligence that Abe had sent on was incredibly detailed, but there was also his counterpart's words still weighing in his mind, especially about Lee. There was nothing in the report except for the numbers that he had decoded and details of the possible expansion of the ring of agents. Nothing existed about Lee possibly being a traitor – Abe, Anna, and to an extent, Anna's housemaid, Abigail, had not heard any mention or inference in passing conversations from the heart of British command about that man.

“The whole of the King's troops within the city, do not exceed 3,500 men,” Washington said. “Garrison forces at the borders not counted yet, and neither have the outposts...” Washington looked up, “Are these numbers precise?”

“Approximate,” he answered. “He transcribed a few of the troop numbers from Culper Junior and other Patriots stuck within the city.” A brief expression of surprise appeared on Washington's face and seeking to reassure his commander of what was presented, he continued to say, “Culper briefly mentioned a second person besides our signal agent helping him. Mr. Sackett is currently working on a means of encryption besides the codebook for any additional agents we may acquire in the city.”

“These agents...” Washington began, giving him an intense look.

“It's detailed in the report,” he answered, gesturing to the letter, understanding that though Washington had not yet asked about a possible expansion to the number of agents within the ring, for the inclusion of the three women was already quite a boon, New York City was not the friendliest of places to enlist agents.

As if giving him the benefit of the doubt, he saw his commander nod as he said, “It's wonderfully detailed. Please tell Mr. Culper that I eagerly await his next report. Impress upon him that time is of the essence.”

“Sir,” he said after a moment of watching Washington continue to pour over the strategic map of the city. “During my brief trip to Setauket, I also received intelligence from my counterpart that points to General Lee being a traitor. He stated that he sent you this piece of information during the summer.”

“Yes,” the general answered in a dismissive tone, continuing to look back and forth from the letter to the map. “It's inconclusive, unclear.” Ben saw him take another few red wedge pieces and slid them to the mouth of the Hudson Rivers, saying, “Eight ships anchored in the lower mouth of the river...”

Perplexed that after what had happened with the pamphlet going around camp, along with the incident at the officers' dinner a few days ago, he said, “I beg your pardon, sir, but after everything--”

“No,” Washington stated, looking up. “The source of this is only through hearsay and of a battle that has not happened yet. There is no context, no proof, and certainly a man just reading someone's opinions out of a pamphlet cannot be condemned for inaction.”

Ben opened his mouth to protest, but immediately closed it as he saw a frank look pass over his commander's face as Washington said in an admonishing tone, “The spirits of the men are lifted beyond a doubt after our victories at Brandywine and Saratoga. Now is not the time to disparage a venerable General.”

“Sir...yes, sir,” he said after a moment, reigning in his slowly growing anger at just how careless his commander was being.

Giving a nod to Washington he turned and left the room, clenching and unclenching his hands in frustration as he walked down the hall and towards the entrance. Perhaps his mentor had advice on how to convince Washington of the folly of keeping Lee within the ranks. He glanced back into the room where he had seen Sackett and Natalie but found it empty – the stack of papers that had been on the desk was also missing. He had not heard anyone walk past Washington's office and could only presume that his mentor and Natalie had gone outside.

Not even bothering to give a nod towards the guards as exited the house, his assumption about Sackett being outside was correct as he quickly descended the steps and strode across to the edge of the camp, towards where he saw Caleb sitting next to an ember-filled campfire. Sackett's wagon was the first thing he set his sights upon, and in his angry haze, he lashed out at it, connecting his fist against the wooden side. Pain blossomed across his knuckles and fingers as he heard a grunt come from within the wagon just as he saw Caleb glance up at him with a mild look upon his face.

“Whoa, you got some anger issues,” he heard Brewster comment as he realized that both she and Samantha had been standing on the other side of the wagon and Sackett was inside of the wagon as his mentor popped his head out.

“Oh calm down,” Sackett immediately said as Ben saw him climb down from inside the wagon, dusting his hands slightly.

As his mentor started to pass out three small rum bottles that did not contain the liquid but rather contained dark grain-like substances within them, Ben accepted one just as Samantha asked, “So what's got your knickers in a twist?”

“What?” he asked, not entirely sure what she was asking as she hefted a familiar-looking sack over her shoulder. He realized that she was holding onto the sack that contained her many letters of affection. “Samantha, you shouldn't...that's heavy. Here, let me--”

She took a step back from him as he attempted to take the sack from her, saying, “Oy, Benny-boy, don't worry. So come on, what's eating you? You looked positively happy going into the house to brief Washington. Coming out, you've now got a tiny storm cloud over your head.”

“Washington didn't believe me,” he stated, unable to keep the frustration and anger from coloring his tone. “Didn't believe the evidence was in front of him this whole time – the pamphlet, even historical evidence presented--”

“Sir, that 'historical' evidence only happened, or is supposed to happen next year,” Brewster interrupted. “There's no precedence that it is going to happen.”

“No proof,” he followed up, glancing back at the house. “None at all. Dammit.”

“Yep, just like that, and you're angry,” Caleb chimed in.

Something about his friend's flippant tone, his complete utter disregard for the fact that he knew that his friend knew and understood what caused that brawl a few days ago irritated him. They didn't know what he had lost, what had happened, and how much, how _personal_ it meant to him to see Lee drawn up as a traitor, much less Rogers hang for his actions against the 2 nd Continental Light Dragoons.

There was poison still running through camp and as he snapped his head back towards them, he found himself clenching his other fist saying, “I _lost_ my entire patrol to Robert Rogers! My men were _butchered_ in that ambush! You know who we were on our way to rendezvous with?! Charles Lee!”

“So you think the bastard sold out your route to Rogers?” Brewster bluntly asked as out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Sackett's response to his tirade was to only pour himself and Samantha two cups of hot tea.

“Yes,” he stated.

“Proof?” she asked.

The curse was on the edge of his lips, but he did not utter it and instead said, “Every hour that Lee remains in the camp, the more his poison infects this army! Washington should already see that!”

“Our dear General may be overly stubborn, numbingly obsessive, and down right bull-headed at times,” Sackett spoke up, sipping his tea and giving him a pointed look. “But he is not, in this case at least, wrong. Imperatively, that is.”

“I'm going to find proof of Lee's treachery,” he stated.

“Perhaps it is best left to Culper, your signal agent, this woman Culper mentioned about...this Abigail, and that other man... Culper Junior?” Sackett asked. “After all, they're in the heart of British Command, right where British Intelligence has set up their operations. They are sources for military intelligence, not personnel, at least not yet – we have not received any word of any of our honorable generals here being traitors. ”

“Culper and the signal agent have cited that Abigail's intelligence has not yet been wrong so far, and that she's still employed within Major Andre's house. She may not have heard word yet of Lee's treachery, but we can always hope that word does exist and will eventually come by Culper's reports. I have no reason to believe that her intelligence passed to her former mistress has not been wrong and will not be wrong.”

“No,” Sackett agreed, “but she is an unverified asset, along with this Culper Junior, ergo it falls to us to verify both of them so that if proof does come in, Washington cannot contest it.” Ben saw his mentor frown slightly before pouring out the rest of his tea on the ground. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he stated, gesturing for them to follow him.

“Hey, should we get Natalie?” Samantha asked before they could start off, gesturing past Ben's shoulders.

Ben turned slightly to see Natalie emerging from the far corner of the house, her pale blue cotton dress swishing this way and that, but she was not walking the perimeter of the house alone. Walking beside her was the French Intelligence officer, and he was in the midst of gesticulating with his hands as she nodded to the officer's words.

“Well, she's getting a bit chummy with Frenchie,” he heard Brewster murmur in appreciation, as an inexplicable sense of jealousy washed over him. In his eyes, he found that the officer was walking a little too close to Natalie--

“No,” Sackett spoke up, just a little too sharply, though it snapped Ben out of his strange but brief fugue. “Leave her be. It is you four that I need to speak and show you what is inside of the barn.”

Both Samantha and Brewster did not hesitate in following Sackett towards the barn of oddities, as it was known throughout camp. Tearing his gaze away from Natalie and the French officer, Ben caught Caleb's puzzled glance towards him, and Ben merely nodded down towards the bottles they were holding before shrugging slightly. They followed the two women, though it took all of his effort not to look back to see what else the woman of his affections and the foreign officer were doing.

The thought that Natalie was interested in another man, especially a foreign one at that, sent despair through his mind, but after he had shown her the final copy of the letter that he was going to send back to Peggy Shippen of Philadelphia, she had barely reacted to what he had written. He had taken her advice to heart, had written it as if he was writing to her and not some woman he had no interest in other than recruiting as a potential agent. All she had done was smile, nod, and hand it back to him without a word. Was his pursuance of her for naught? Was his exercise in futility to end? He didn't know and as his feet carried him towards Sackett's barn, he found that he did not want it to be for naught or end.

The creak of the barn door being opened shook him out of his thoughts as the two women entered after Sackett, he followed behind the two and as soon as he heard Caleb step in behind him, he heard his friend say, “Sweet Jesus, what the hell is this, mate?”

“Dude... so many shiny objects!” Brewster exclaimed at the same time.

He just gaped at everything that the barn contained – from strange contraptions that he knew not what they did, to vials of liquid on a table, along with something rather large under a canvas tarp, rifles that looked to be modified and other weapons stacked up against a wall... it was an overwhelming amount of gadgets that was comparable to the advanced rifles and pistols that the future-people carried – except that it was made from 18th century items. At least he thought everything in the barn was made from 18th century items.

“We don't have a name for it yet,” Sackett answered.

“Q-branch!” Samantha crowed. “This is the Quartermaster's branch, established in 1777! James Bond gadgetry for the 18th century spy!”

“Pardon?” Sackett asked, peering at Samantha through the rims of his spectacles as Ben saw Caleb absently place his grain-filled rum bottle on the central table and wander over towards the back.

Brewster had done the same with her own bottle and as Ben watched in utter fascination at the two poking around, he heard Samantha say, “James Bond was a fictional English spy written in some mid-20th century books that people read for recreation. There was a branch, the Quartermaster's branch, that outfitted him with all sorts of gadgets that he used on his missions.”

“You and your obsession with 20th century fictional literature,” he heard Brewster say, just as both her and Caleb's eyes lit up as Caleb pulled out from underneath some brooms, a double-barreled blunderbuss. Even he was quite impressed with it when he saw Caleb push a small, strange trigger next to the flintlock that allowed a bayonet to spring forward.

“Hmph,” Sackett said, bringing Ben's attention back to him. “Well, we certainly can't call it the Quartermaster's branch. We are not serving the army here.”

“Q-branch then! Please?” Samantha asked.

He couldn't help but smile slightly as his anger and frustration at the blindness of Washington, along with his despair at what he had just witnessed between Natalie and the Frenchman, abated. He heard Sackett give a rather loud exasperated sigh as his mentor said, “Fine. Q-branch until we find a better name for it. Congress is suspicious of allocating money to secret services, so we must keep this to ourselves.”

“Yay!”

Sackett shook his head slightly before saying to Ben, “Ever since you told me about 355 and Culper Junior over the summer, Natalie and I've been working on securing protocols for both of them. It's also how we started to bring and create various items into this barn.”

“355?” he questioned, “who is 355?”

“Abigail,” his mentor answered. “Our lady within the heart of British Intelligence.”

“Oh my God...is that an actual prototype grenade launcher?” Brewster suddenly exclaimed, her voice pitched higher than she normally spoke at.

“Agh! Lemme see!” Samantha said, dropping her sack of letters at the foot of the central table and scrambled towards where Brewster and Caleb were, admiring a rather strange-looking weapon.

“For God's sake man, put that down!” Sackett immediately said, huffing slightly as all three gave the man guilty looks before Caleb slowly put the prototype back down. Ben shook his head slightly in amusement as his mentor returned his attention to him after another moment of glaring at the three, saying, “Now, both 355 and Culper Junior require instructions on how to operate properly, should they start sending messages on their own. That also means we will have to increase our check in times, for we do not know when those messages might arrive.”

As Sackett turned to head towards the back, while Caleb and the others decided to move onwards in exploring other contraptions and gadgets within the barn, an object on the main table caught Ben's attention. Picking it up, he turned the small metallic object over in his hands as he took a closer look at the shape of it – it looked like it was the beginnings of a pistol, at least the barrel of one, and there was a small knife strapped to the side of it with a curious tight, metal coil holding it in place.

“Ah, here it is,” he heard the slightly muffled voice of his mentor say as he placed the object back down and found Sackett rummaging through a pile of oddities before pulling out a roughly carved wooden ship that had a single mast and a bowspirit, but no sails attached to it. He saw Sackett glance over towards Caleb, who had picked up a small, curious-looking box, saying, “That's enough.”

“Sorry,” he heard Caleb mutter as he wandered over to where the two women were. The two were examining a few vials of different-colored liquids that were sitting next to some eggs, taking turns sniffing the liquids and making faces based upon how awful the contents smelled.

Returning his attention to Ben, Sackett said, “Now, using this, we can send a message with limited protocol to 355.” He saw the man wiggle the bowspirit slightly, saying, “There's a hidden compartment inside...” Sackett paused for a moment before lifting the bowspirit out to reveal that the hidden end of the small rod of wood had been carved into a rather thinly pointed end that had a tiny divot near the tip and seemed to look slightly hollow. “Dear God...this will need to be redone...” he heard Sackett mutter to himself. “My dear Natalie... we are trying to send messages, not assassinate someone...”

“Oooh, Natalie carved a poison carrier?” Samantha said, coming over and plucked the small bowspirit-turned-poison-carrier from Sackett's hand. “This is so nifty!”

“Please give it back, Samantha,” Sackett impatiently said.

Reluctantly, she handed him the bowspirit and as he reattached it to the ship, Ben asked, “How long will it take?”

“Oh, provided that she's not engaged in other duties, though she did lose that chess bet this morning, not long.”

“This needs to get into New York by the way of Setauket, and even then, it may be scrutinized, seeing that we control Setauket,” he impatiently stated. The scenario to even get such a innocuous object past inspection would have to hold up against the suspicious British checkpoints – perhaps his counterpart knew of some sympathetic forces who would be able to smuggle it in via British-occupied Oyster Bay...

“Patience,” Sackett said. “Rome was not built in a day.”

“But it was sacked in one,” he countered. “I need direct information from 355 or Culper Junior that Lee is a traitor now, not a month from now.” Placing the dark bottle of grain on the main table, as she saw that Sackett's attention was yet again, divided to Caleb and the others, he glanced at the various objects around him. He thought that his mentor believed him about Lee being a traitor, but seemed to stymie his efforts into quickly rooting out Lee's treachery--

“Don't touch that!” Sackett sharply said as Ben looked back up to Caleb lifting the overly large piece of canvas covering an enormous object. Samantha and Brewster were trying to peer under it. “It's very expensive and for special operations only!”

The three gave Sackett guilty looks before Caleb dropped the canvas, though Brewster attempted to lift it again before a 'harumph' from Sackett caused her to stop her antics. Frustrated at the lack useful advice and help that he was receiving, he turned to leave except that in the sweeping of his eyes around the barn, he noticed something quite odd. Paying little attention to Caleb and Brewster's complaints to Sackett about not being able to examine the item hidden away, he took a closer look at it. It was rectangular in nature by platform, bisected in height by a rectangular bridge frame. Spokes struck out from the center of the device, with two of the ends containing quills. There were hinges on the device and when he gently prodded it, the entire center spokes moved upon the bridge frame.

Poking it some more, he saw the individual movements being translated in not only a planar fashion similar to the plane the entire device sat upon, but also angular for the third dimension movement, with the torsional beams to angle the quills during fore-and-aft movement. For the side-to-side movement, a parallel beam sat on the linkage of the entire spoke mechanism.

Glancing down at the two reports that were on the platform, he realized that each piece was identical and that this particular device duplicated words from one report to another. “Mr. Sackett?” he asked, looking back up and interrupting whatever his mentor had been lecturing to Caleb and the women. “What exactly does this do?”

Sackett approached, saying, “That's Thomas Jefferson's newest toy. It allows him to write two letters at the same time and keep a double of his correspondence. Polygraph duplicator, is what he calls it.”

“Agh!” Samantha cried out, hurrying over and immediately started to examine the device as if she were a child gifted with a new toy. “Jefferson's original polygraph! I loved studying this machine during high school!”

Stepping away from her rather enthusiastic examination, he saw Sackett sigh for a moment before saying, “We recently acquired it, Samantha. Please do not break it. Natalie and I do still need to use it.”

“You both have been using it?” he questioned, frowning slightly.

“Natalie more than I, since she has a better writing skill for reports. After what happened at Brandywine with the unexpected news of Gatling guns and British forces being armed with those advanced rifles, both she and I have taken upon ourselves to see if counter-measures could be implemented within this camp. Someone or dare I say it, some people in this camp have been feeding our general false scouting reports since the summer. As counter-intelligence is Natalie's specialty, she has begun to write false reports for some of the generals' desks in an effort to trap potential spies.”

“Why was I not informed of this?” he asked.

“Visibility,” Sackett answered. “And also, we just acquired this device and started implementing the plan a couple of days ago. Don't know if its going to work.”

“What do you mean by visibility?”

“Head of Intelligence! Spies know these things. The fact that you know Major John Andre by name as the British Head of Intelligence should lend it some credence,” Sackett admonished.

“Easy, old man,” Brewster interrupted, taking a few steps forward. “Sir, there are always two faces in the world of espionage – the face we show only to those we trust, and the face that we show for the rest of the world. The names attached to those faces can be different or the same, hence aliases. Spies will always look for the true face, to know their enemy in the truest sense. We already know Major Andre by name. He's most likely heard of your name too and the true capacity that you serve in the Continental Army. While others in the camp may not know you as the Head of Intelligence, if the attempt on your life during your trip to Setauket is anything to go by, you're already a target. Keeping you, Washington, Gates, Arnold, Lee, and the rest of them within British and Britannia sights may be dangerous, but it allows your counter-intelligence agents to move in the background and mitigate damage done by spies.”

“Yep, that's me, the mole rat in the field,” Samantha quipped, attempting to lighten the mood. “And Natalie too... and you look like the proverbial cat that ate the canary, Ben.”

“Could this polygraph,” he said, pulling a blank sheet of parchment over the two already on the platform, “duplicate something that's already been written? Like a personal signature?”

“You wish to forge a letter?” Sackett asked.

“No,” he answered. “To set a trap. There may be spies within the camp, but there are certainly traitors already within the army and poisoning it.” He picked up the blank parchment, saying, “You see sir, with the right signature, it's anyone we say it is. As long as Lee doesn't know, it's someone he can trust as a friend.”

He saw Sackett reluctantly nod, but it was Samantha who spoke up, saying, “You're really hell bent on proving Lee a traitor, aren't you?” Ben opened his mouth to answer, but she held up a hand saying, “Rhetorical question. Don't answer it.” He snapped his mouth shut.

“All right, suppose we do, suppose that he is proven to be a traitor,” Samantha continued, “what then? What about Arnold? If we're talking about traitors here, General Benedict Arnold and General Charles Lee have been ingrained into school-aged children as names synonymous to traitors in the history of the United States. Those two nearly cost us the war. If we're going to out Lee as a traitor, we're going to have to also apply equal pressure to Arnold-- ah, ah, ah, Carrie.” She had turned slightly to shake her head at Brewster. “I know you guys want to save him and all, but he fucking sold Westpoint to the British to pay debts. If you want to save him, you're going to have to convince Congress to part with their money or raise more money – and we've already seen that they're not willing to fund secret services. How delinquent are they with funds?”

Silence answered her question before it was Caleb who asked, “Are you asking us to forge a letter to Congress?”

“No, but I have an idea that might just save us some grief if we're going to be forging letters to generals,” she answered, walking over to where she had dropped her sack of letters. Hefting it up, she placed it on the main table, saying, “Do continue forging that letter to Lee, because I think that bastard deserves a good outing as a traitor. But as for potential people such as Arnold and others who may be being skimped on pay from Congress and are feeling a bit resentful, because hey... misery loves company. Let me see if there are any true sympathizers within these letters who can prod Congress on the money issue.”

“You pulling a sugar daddy gambit, Sam?” Brewster said, her expression between amused and bafflement.

“Sugar daddy?” Sackett asked, puzzled.

“It'll take time, but it might just work,” Samantha answered, ignoring Sackett's question. “Besides, it's not like I'm going to marry any of them. Just get them to support the Continental Army and the fight for their freedom instead of letting their wealth go to waste on frivolous parties.”

“Jesus, you are a heartless heartbreaker, Sam,” Brewster quipped, though it seemed to Ben that the smile on Brewster's face was only there to soften the blow.

“Ah, well,” Sackett said, interrupting the two, “if you are planning what I think you're planning, then perhaps some support from the male half of things would also be in order.” Ben saw his mentor bend down slightly to retrieve something that was stored beneath the main table. When Sackett stood again, there was a small sack in his hands, and not a moment later, it was thrown to Ben.

Catching it, he set it on the table and opened it, just as Sackett said, “Letters from your own set of admirers in Philadelphia, Tallmadge. Came in while you were in Setauket.”

He heard Caleb openly laugh before Brewster joined in and shook his head. He would never heard the end of it from Caleb now, especially with the fact that he just knew that his friend was going to bother him about reading and sharing the contents of the letters. Seeing that it was useless to continue keeping the fact that he was already corresponding with Peggy Shippen, he wondered if his assessment of her as an agent could be turned into also preventing Arnold from betraying the army. “Well, if you must know, Mr. Sackett, I've received a letter from Miss Peggy Shippen and have already written back to her.”

Caleb and Brewster's laughter abruptly died as he saw the two, along with Samantha gape at him. Sackett merely raised an eyebrow before saying, “I see...”

“Only for the purposes of assessing her as a potential friendly agent within Philadelphia and utilizing her influence around the region,” he hastily clarified. As an addendum after a moment's pause, he said, “Natalie suggested it.”

“I see...” his mentor repeated, seemingly unmoved.

“Holy crap, wait... Shippen is the historical wife of Arnold,” Brewster spoke up. “If we can--”

“Out!” Sackett suddenly said, waving his hands. “Everyone out except for the Major here.”

Eight pairs of baffled eyes looked at Sackett for a moment before complying with his request. When the barn door closed, leaving Ben alone with his mentor, he saw him remove his spectacles and rub the lenses with a piece of cloth that he had removed from his vest pocket. There seemed to be an aged look upon his mentor's face for a moment before the spectacles were placed back on his face.

“What are you doing, Tallmadge?” Sackett asked in a tired voice.

Confused, he furrowed his brows slightly as he hefted the sack of letters, saying, “I'm not sure what you're asking, sir.”

“I mean, what are you trying to do in your capacity as Head of Intelligence?” the man asked again. “Are you _trying_ to commit treason by forging an irrational concern of a letter that condemns General Lee? Are you trying to prove yourself right or Washington wrong?”

“I'm doing this to _protect_ him,” he answered, dismayed that of all people questioning his motives, it was Sackett. He knew that the man knew of the condemnation, of the incendiary lies being spread around camp, of what the future-people had briefed about circumstances. “This is to expose his enemies. They're the ones committing treason, and I'm simply gathering the proof.”

“Tallmadge,” Sackett began, sighing, “Benjamin... there are more ways than this one avenue to prove Lee is a traitor, to prove anyone else is a traitor. Words can be written in haste, in fear, in an emotional upheval. The carved ship--”

“--Will take too long, sir--”

“--the carved ship is one way. It may be long, but we're in the midst of settling for a winter's rest. So are they! You must see the long game, Tallmadge. You must know how to predict and counter your opponent's moves in advance. Build evidence, build something that cannot be easily torn down by burning letters in a fire. Lee should not be your only concern – there are others that we do not know of, and though we have begun to try to mitigate the damage done throughout the summer, we need rational thoughts, rational ploys to counter British infiltration and espionage. I and my infernal devices here can only protect your agents so much. Washington chose you to lead, to spearhead this initiative because he trusts your judgment.”

“And all that I've produce for him is hearsay,” Ben answered after a moment.

“Well, given the circumstances, I'd say that the fact that we at least have two agents or more in New York City is better than anything we could have hoped for,” Sackett said, shrugging.

He nodded, saying, “Then we'll continue using the wooden ship as a method to extract proof from Major Andre's residence and possibly more intelligence if 355 is willing to engage in riskier behavior. If not, then perhaps--”

“Think over it while you're perusing those letters, Tallmadge,” Sackett suggested. “After all, even with Samantha's suggestion of expanding our eyes and ears in Philadelphia and its surroundings, the fairer half do have much to contribute to the war effort.”

“Then you're not...?”

“Angry? Hardly, boy,” Sackett scoffed. “I did give you permission after all, and if Natalie has already suggested the same be done with Miss Shippen, Jewel of Philadelphia, then I trust her judgment in the matters of her own heart. Who am I to interfere, after all, her intellect in these types of matter supersedes my own. You'd best watch yourself, Tallmadge – she's a very sharp one, that she is.”

“Yes,” he said, smiling slightly. “That she is.”

“That being said, I'm still watching you,” his mentor said, shaking a finger at him while seemingly looming over him even though the man was clearly shorter than he was. “You only have my permission to court her, that is it.”

The smile died on his face as Ben obediently nodded. Mentor or no, Sackett was quite a formidable person, especially when it came to those he held dear. “I promise to be ever respectful and honorable in my actions towards her, sir. And I thank you again for your permission.”

“Hmph.”

* * *

_Somewhere underground in NYC where there are no giant sewer rats (yet), and the gator/croc subway legend has not been born yet..._

 

“I did what you asked of me,” Abe angrily said without preamble as soon as the entrance to the nearly empty, grey-walled room he had been 'kindly' escorted into by two strangely-dressed guardsmen closed.

“I'm not sure that I follow...” Simcoe began, looking puzzled as he smoothly rose up from the metal chair that he had been sitting in.

Abe took a quick look around the room and even glanced back, but similar to the first time he had been here, all the walls surrounding him looked too smooth, too stone-like and utterly devoid of any cracks that could tell him where an entrance or exit was. The tubes of illumination were still decorating the ceiling, and the only two inanimate objects in the room were an empty chair and the one that this strange visage of the Simcoe he knew – this future-Simcoe – had occupied.

“Your letter, your list of British forces in this city, you grubshite of a man,” he spat out. “The one you so kindly drew an asp on, threatening my family and me.”

“Oh,” Simcoe said, affecting concern in not only his tone but also his expression, “oh, that list. I had been wondering where it went. Someone drew an asp on it?”

Red hot anger swept through Abe as he clenched his hands into fists, wanting to punch the man and wipe off the irritatingly fake display of concern. However, having seen just how armed the two guards that had escorted him here were, especially with the strange blocky rifles they carried, he managed to refrain himself from performing the actions, but not enough to take the few steps forward to close the distance. “Don't,” he warned. “Just don't.”

“Mr. Woodhull,” Simcoe said, unmoved by his aborted actions, “I truly do not understand what you're accusing me of. I had no part in what you think I had a part in. All I wanted you to do was to relay the information to Washington. That is all. If someone is threatening you, then we must take steps to ensure your safety and that of your family.”

Abe gave a sarcastic bark of laughter as he threw his hands into the air before bringing them against his face for a moment. Scrubbing his face, he put his hands back down and took a step back. “You?! The hell are you going to do?! Two of the missing four Setauket men were found on the main street right near my house! I found your threat shortly thereafter. Washington has the numbers, but no more. You think I'm a fool for coming down here unarmed – no. If I die or go missing for more than twelve hours, the next letter to go out exposes you and this little cabal down here. Whoever the hell you are, and whatever the hell you're doing, I'll have no more part in it!”

Simcoe was quiet for a few moments before glancing down at his fingernails. “Well,” he said, continuing to examine his fingers, “that certainly explains why two of the prisoners are missing.” The man looked back up, saying, “and I suppose that in your state of mind, it would be utterly pointless for me to convince you that I had nothing to do with their deaths either.”

“You're damn right about that,” he answered, placing his hands on his hips, glaring at the man.

“All right then,” the man said, “please follow me. I suppose that I have to confirm my allegiance to you in other ways.” Abe stood his ground as Simcoe turned around and headed to the far side of the room where a portion of the wall seemingly glided open, revealing an equally illuminated hall. “Come, Mr. Woodhull,” Simcoe insisted, just as Abe heard the heavy footsteps of two men behind him and turned slightly to see the same guards that had escorted him stop beside him. There was no choice in the matter, and despite his earlier declaration, he didn't want to die, at least not yet.

It was not a ruse by him – he did indeed have a 'last will and testament' in the form of a truth letter. It was currently sitting in between pages of the codebook, but he was confident that if he went missing, Mary would eventually discover the codebook. He still had not confronted her about her potentially knowing what he did, but it did explain the reasons why he always had a feeling that Ensign Baker, who now served the north garrison, had been discreetly following him around at times. He was sure that Baker did not know the reason why and most likely assumed that he had been assigned to follow him so that he could not be caught alone with Anna and always met her out in public.

Only the shuffle and echoes of their footsteps carried through the winding, sharp-angled hall, and eventually they emerged into a rather large central chamber where there were what looked like cells lined down from the entrance. Bars did not decorate the cells, and instead, exceptionally clear, tall glass provided the window and view into each cell. Simcoe stopped at one that was two in, on the right, and Abe found himself peering into it.

Two raggedy-looking people in tattered clothing with sores covering exposed skin sat on the stone slabs that doubled not only as a place to sit but also as a cot. They were hunched over and though he could not see their faces, it took him a few minutes to identify them – partially due to the poor illumination within the cell. “Jesus,” he said, taking a step back in horror. “Lucas Brewster and Reverend Tallmadge.”

“Yes,” Simcoe agreed. “They are fed and watered twice a day, but due to my precarious position, I cannot free them without compromising myself here. Director Andre has left me in charge of the facility while he is away on business, and there are many here who do not agree with my views and would see not only me but all of the prisoners here dead. I keep them alive to maintain my own cover, much as you maintain your own.”

“Bullshit,” he furiously said. “You're just a coward--”

“Much the same as you, Mr. Woodhull,” Simcoe interrupted. “And you should not be concerned--”

“Woodhull?” a man's voice, muffled by something weakly called out, silencing both of them. “Woodhull?”

“Ah, he's finally awoken,” Abe heard Simcoe say as he followed the man down a couple of cells and on the left, saw a man dressed in tattered clothing, trying to get up from the slab of stone he was lying on. Blood was freely flowing from wounds that decorated his face, arms, hands, legs, and body. His dark hair was matted and there was a rather unkempt beard gracing his face that seemed to have grown all the way to his chest.

“Good. That last session...” Simcoe muttered before removing a small, thin, rectangular object from within his jacket and tapped it twice. The prisoner moaned again in pain as Simcoe said, “As I was trying to say earlier, you may not want to concern yourself too much with who we have prisoner down here, Mr. Woodhull. Your concern should be those above, and since we now know that a threat has been leveled on you and your family, I shall try to expend some discreet resources to try to identify who threatened you and if it can be eliminated without undue consequences. However, I would also suggest that you keep an eye on a Mrs. Anna Strong as well. With the threat upon you, her life is very much in danger as yours... and I truly do not want to lose an asset such as this man that is being kept here.”

Abe blinked, not only in surprise but also in slight confusion. However, as he took a closer look at the tortured man, he realized the implications of Simcoe's words and whispered, “That man... that man is one of Anna's descendants?”

“Quite right, Mr. Woodhull,” Simcoe said, nodding. “Andrew Strong, a former agent of MI6 and a known member of the Culpeper Spy Ring who reports to Lieutenant General Georgia Washington of the United States Army. Director Andre caught him before the operation that merged our two eras began and has been trying to extract information from him. If his ancestor, Anna Strong, is killed, then he also dies. While I certainly do not advocate her death to put this poor agent out of his misery, others of Andre's cohorts may see fit to dispose of Mrs. Strong in order to advance the cause... especially a Major John Andre of the British Intelligence.”

“What?”

Simcoe affected a confused look that looked quite genuine, but something within Abe's mind cautioned against believing such words and expressions from the man. “Do you not know? Has she not told you?” the man asked. “Major Andre has been colluding with the Director here. I have seen them working together, planning and carrying out subversive operations in these past few months. I have also overheard that Major Andre is attempting to turn Mrs. Strong into a double agent, and that she has been meeting him late at night...alone. I thought you knew. If you don't...well, please dissuade her from what she's doing – she could get killed, and I will not be able to smuggle information out via Mr. Strong here.”

“You're lying,” Abe said after a moment. “You're lying, you snake. I'm done. I'm out--”

“Andrew?” a weak voice suddenly spoke up from behind Abe. It was muffled, but it was definitely female, and Abe felt himself being roughly pushed past and nearly shoved to the ground as Simcoe charged past him.

“Abigail,” he heard Simcoe whisper as he turned to see the man crouch and place a hand on the glass, seeing a woman in equally ruined clothing as Andrew Strong wore, sitting on the ground of her cell and leaning against the window. However, even in his anger and disbelief at what was happening, he had not missed the tender inflection within Simcoe's tone by that one name.

“Andrew...” the woman repeated again, this time smiling with a faraway gaze as if she were lost in a world of her own making, and not locked in filth. “I remember... I remember that time...”

“Christ,” Abe whispered. “What in God's name did you do to her, you monster?”

“Me?!” Simcoe hissed, and Abe nearly took a step back at just how coldly furious his eyes were. “You think _I_ did this?!”

Abe was not easily swayed by the words, but he could feel doubt start to eat at him. Perhaps Simcoe was right – perhaps he had made a mistake in accusing the man who was the bane of not only his, but also Anna's, Hewlett's, and everyone else's existence. “Who is she? This torture that she's endured...can't you set her free?”

“She,” Simcoe began, a little less hostile than he had been a moment ago, “she was also caught at the same time Mr. Strong was caught. By God I wish I could set her free, but I can't. Look at her legs, Mr. Woodhull.”

Abe looked down and saw what looked like full wooden leg bracers wrapped around each of her legs from ankle all the way up past her knee and stopping mid-thigh. Even with the dim illumination, he could see that they were swollen, bruised beyond measure, and there were many stitching running up and down. “They're broken,” he whispered, utterly appalled at just how barbaric these people were towards prisoners.

“Were, Mr. Woodhull,” Simcoe answered. “They're set and mending, but she cannot go anywhere at the moment. I'm doing all I can to keep her alive and out of the Director's hands. She tried to escape once before and the Director broke both of her legs as punishment. You should also keep yourself alive for her sake, Mr. Woodhull, after all, she is your descendant Abigail Woodhull.”

Abe found himself staring at the woman with the empty eyes and equally empty smile, gazing at the ceiling as if she was witnessing the face of God. As beatific as her expression was, the churning in his stomach would not stop. Cautiously, he too crouched and slowly placed a hand against the glass. She did not react to him or the hand and continued to stare at the ceiling, mumbling to herself.

“Monsters...” was all he could say.

* * *

_Morristown, evening..._

 

“Sir, with all due consideration, perhaps--”

“Perhaps I shall have your life in exchange for my leg!”

Though not the most ideal of times to enter, Washington chose to do so, not only to spare the good surgeon of Arnold's wrath, but to also calm his friend down. “You should count yourself lucky, doctor,” he quietly said, glancing over the operating theatre that was to happen around Arnold's injured leg. “The first time General Arnold was wounded, he had his sword and two pistols beside his bed.”

“Well, apparently, I have been tempered,” Arnold dryly answered. Even in his condition, so ill and pale-looking, he still had the strength to spar with words.

“Well, I should hope not for our enemy's sake,” he countered, and saw a tired smile appear on his friend's expression. Though Arnold had limped into that officer's dinner a few days ago, his friend had dismissed the wound as nothing more than a flesh wound. However, it had not been so, for it was only in the late afternoon that he, Washington, had been informed that Arnold had become violently ill enough to have been taken by aides to the surgeon. The wound upon Arnold's leg looked gangrenous, rotten, puss-filled, and seemed to pulsate black blood by the lantern light.

Hoping that not only would his presence help his friend maintain his strength through what was to be an excruciatingly painful surgery, but also allow Arnold to think of other things than his wound, he said, “I bring news from Congress. You are to be appointed Major-General; a decision that is well-deserved as it is long overdue.”

Far be it that Arnold had lost his senses when telling the surgeon not to amputate his leg, he heard his friend complain, saying, “Why is it that they appoint me when I'm wounded?”

“I realized that I could lose you,” he quietly answered, “and convinced Congress to come to their senses.” It was as close to the truth as he dared to admit, not only for their long friendship, but also for the fact that out of the many ravenous wolves that brayed in camp and disapproved his actions, Arnold had not spoken one condemning word of judgment upon him ever. Even some Congressional members were listening to those words, but fortunately, many of them still listened and took actions with true impartiality.

“Well, it's been something I've feared that might never have happened,” Arnold said, managing yet another weak smile. “I'd like to see St. Clair's face when I tell him that I outrank him once again, and rightly so.”

Washington glanced over at the surgeon and politely asked, “Doctor, would you excuse us?”

“Sir,” the surgeon acknowledged and left.

Taking a chair near the surgeon's desk, he brought it over and sat next to his friend. With a closer view of Arnold's wounds, it looked quite gruesome more so than it had been when he had been standing. There was also a very pungent scent of rotting flesh emanating from it. Still, it was Arnold's decision whether or not to amputate the leg, and he did not press the issue. Instead, he said, “Your promotion is in title only. You will remain subordinate to those who were promoted in February.”

Scoffing with a disgusted look appearing on his face, Arnold said, “You mean to tell me that the man who defeated Burgoyne is outranked by _the man who retreated from him_?!” Washington internally sighed as he looked away from the furious glare that his friend had leveled at him. “Schuyler, St. Clair, Putnam, Lincoln – I've won more battles than all of them put together! Title only?! What about pay? They're four years delinquent in reimbursing my expenses!”

“Congress is without surplus,” he explained, hoping that his friend would understand the circumstances. “We all must continue to make sacrifices--”

“Sacrifice?!” Arnold interrupted, hissing not only in pain but also in anger. “What do _you_ know of sacrifice?” Remember George, my wife did you come from means, and she left me with three sons to care for. Three mouths to feed, three men to raise strong. I would rather _die_ than to see shame brought on them as my father did before me!” Arnold shot Washington a withering look as he jabbed, “Something _you_ would understand if you had any songs of your own.”

Washington clenched his jaw for a moment, anger surging through him for that very low blow that was undeserved. He wanted to attribute it to fever, to his friend being quite delirious because of his wound, but there was clarity in Arnold's eyes – that was a deliberate attack on his person. Arnold was angry, lashing out, and feeling helpless about his situation. As much as he wanted to help him, Washington knew that his friend would not accept any charity from him. He was too proud to ask of it or beg of it. He wanted his due from Congress, for everything that they had done thus far, and Washington had hoped that his briefing about the events of Brandywine to Congress would have an effect, would help revitalize the war effort and allow more reliable supply lines to be established – to allow at least a small amount of the pay they were all due to come in.

“And who are you fighting now?” he quietly asked.

Exhausted, he saw his friend look away in shame, muttering, “I'm fighting for what I deserve.” Looking back, there seemed to be a much calmer countenance to him as he said, “And I will need your support.”

Nodding, he said, “Yes, it has always been there, and always will be.” A sudden spasm afflicted Arnold as he saw him grimace in pain. Grasping his forearm to let him know that he was still there and that he would not be facing surgery alone.

As the fit passed, and he heard his friend exhale, he saw him open his eyes again, saying, “One last question, George, before you call the surgeon back in.”

“Yes?” he patiently asked.

“I've seen things, strange things in my life, but never have I seen the fury and the might of God during Saratoga. Bolts of blue, setting grass, trees, and even overturned carts on fire as soon as they are hit them, along with cutting down men with such accuracy that I have never seen before. Men not marching in formation but rather employing the tactics of the native tribes of the north... and those twenty-one that you sent me... wielding the same type of weapons. What in heaven's name is going on George?”

“Excellent question,” he said, pushing his chair back. “Perhaps it is best discussed once the doctor has tended to you, for I am afraid that it is a very long tale to tell indeed.”

* * *

“Ah, this must be the one that got seared into my cousin's mind,” he heard Samantha half snicker as he looked up to see her smiling just a little too mischievously. “Still can't believe that he thought these were encoded messages.” She looked up and he caught a twinkle in her eyes as she asked, “Want to see it?”

“Um, no,”he answered, quickly returning his attention to his own letters from the numerous admirers he had somehow acquired during his brief trip to Philadelphia. “I think I'll leave my counterpart to his own misery for prying into your letters.”

“Oooh, that's evil,” she teased. “But seriously, some of these _descriptions_ of comparing me to whatever their favorite flowers and their attempts to describe the 'deflowering' they'd do to me is so unimaginative. Do these boys not know how anatomy works? I mean, describing yourself as having a _pipe organ_ for crying out loud...”

As Samantha continued on her tirade against some of the so-called less-imaginative letters from her admirers, Ben could feel heat blossom in his cheeks as he sat at his desk, listening to her. It had initially been his idea for them to work together to go through both sets of letters to see who would provide more valuable of contacts and influence, and she had brought a small portable desk within his tent to work with him. Though her voice was not loud as she continued to complain, with each description from her letters progressively becoming a bit more ribald than he could ever imagine, he was starting to wonder if it was a good idea at all.

“Oh good, you're turning red,” she suddenly said.

“What?” he said, pulling his head back up from the surface of the desk. He had slowly sunk his forehead into the letter he was currently reading in not only an effort to block out Samantha's very descriptive ramblings, but to also try to hide just how flushed he was becoming.

“My work is complete,” she said, smiling. “I did the same thing to Benji when he first learned about the birds and the bees.”

“The what?”

“Uh, you do know how male and female anatomy works when they want to have babies or just want to have some fun, right? Birds and the bees?”

“Yes,” he answered, irritated at her. He had learned about that from his father just before entering Yale. “Samantha, just... just keep working, please?”

“Well, since you didn't tell me what you wrote to Peggy Shippen and won't show me her letter, much less any of those, I do have to assume somethings. If my letters are as bawdy as yours, and that's judging purely by how pink you've been turning since we started this, you're going to have to compose some equally dirty replies.”

He sighed, burying his head into an open palm before looking back up at her, “Maybe we should stop this for now.”

“Eh, I'm good. Sorry for embarrassing you, Ben,” she said. “Truce?”

“Truce as long as you keep those descriptions to yourself,” he said after a moment. “Between you and Caleb, I'm starting to wonder which one of you has a more vulgar mind when it comes to things like this.”

“Bit of a prude, aren't you?” she said, though there was no bite to her tone, just acceptance. “But that's okay! You remind me a lot of how Benji behaved around Natalie when they first met and what's the term in this era for dating... uh, courting?”

“Courting?” he asked, as a hesitant feeling swept through his stomach.

“Yeah,” she answered, “I think that's the word. They're not together anymore... haven't been since Natalie disappeared off the face of the Earth during our third year at Yale before reappearing at MI6. Anyways, when they first met, it was after Benji's first year at Westpoint and mine and Natalie's at Yale. Natalie and I were roommates and when I heard that Benji, out of desperation mind you, had taken Carrie to the annual military ball they have for cadets at the Academy because he couldn't find another girl to ask out other than his best friend. I introduced Natalie to him during the brief time he was visiting me at Westport in the summer. Seriously, Benji was as prudish as you are right now with your letters, trying to be the epitome of 'an officer and a gentleman' to Natalie. It think she found it charming, with all things considered. It was hilarious watching both of them, but alas... it didn't last.”

“Oh,” was that he managed to force out of himself as his mind reeled from the revelation.

“But that Frenchman,” Samantha continued, making a face. “De Francy... yech... what a hands-y person. I mean, did you see how _close_ they were walking earlier today? Bleh.”

“I did,” he answered, careful to keep his tone as neutral as possible. “Perhaps De Francy wanted some clarification on the intelligence that we've provided to him so far, especially about this Napoleon Bonaparte. She is the only person within the circle of advisers and agents who can speak French.”

“Because it was a product of her upbringing and international education, mind you. Not that she's fluent in French, but she's pretty much bilingual in Russian and English,” she said, shaking her head slightly. “Our alliance with Russia guaranteed that at least some of us learned some Russian if not some of the Slavic languages... that is if you weren't born outside of the United States.” She sighed out loud and after a moment, said, “If only you'd written Natalie that one time Sackett gave you permission to do so. I mean, I would have at least walked up to them and tried to separate them...diplomatically, of course.”

 _I would have separated them by force_ , he thought to himself, but then noticed that Samantha was gaping at him. It took him a moment to realize that he had not internalized that particular thought and had indeed, stated it out loud.

“Holy... you _are_ writing... you're _courting_ her,” Samantha whispered before giving a bark of laughter. “Wow.”

He remained silent and merely picked up his quill again, looking back down at the letter he was currently reading through. “Your silence in the matter is conspicuous, Ben,” he heard her say. “I'm going to take that as a 'yes' since you're not defending yourself... wow, I'm still surprised.”

“Samantha,” he said at last, “please... we have much to do. We can discuss this later, yeah?”

“Fuck yeah we're discussing this later, Benny-boy,” she answered. “Because me and my big mouth shouldn't have told you about Benji and Natalie. You're going to need some alcoholic therapy and I'm going to make sure you get it. Also, Frenchie... need to find a way to excise him out of the picture.”

“Samantha...”

“Wha-oh right,” she sheepishly grinned. “Back to work.”

* * *

_Back in rat-infested New York City, underground..._

 

His claps echoed up and down the main research room as his actions caught the eyes of the workers who had been busily buried into whatever they were creating or doing. However, they had also caught the attention of the one man he was hoping to catch before he returned to the surface. “Magnificent,” he stated, coming to a stop before Simcoe.

“Indeed,” Simcoe answered, looking quite pleased with himself.

“I may have to send Philomena to you for further acting lessons,” he stated. “Though I've been quite pleased with her performance, especially with regards to the manipulation of General Lee, if you want this particular... how do you call it... operation... to succeed with both sets of Woodhull and Strong, I think she might need some additional training.”

“Well, Major Andre,” the man said, tapping a few things on the small, thin, rectangular object in his hands. “Please do send her down at your convenience. I doubt that after showing Mr. Woodhull the entirety of the facility that he will be back any time soon and will most likely be planning to find a way to smuggle not only the two Setauket men but also his descendant and Mrs. Strong's descendant out. It will take time, and to sow discord among Woodhull and Strong, along with an attempt at coordination between their stubborn natures and those of the Culper and Culpeper ring, you must also play your own part in this tragedy.”

“Oh I will,” he reassured the man. “However, I do have two questions for you.”

“Yes?”

“First: when do you expect this 'jail break' and attempted escape to happen?” he asked.

“Most likely not until spring. The Director is in the midst of planning and executing an operation within Philadelphia that will hopefully ensnare and allow us to verify Washington's agents. The full execution of the operation will not happen until late December. Of course, we won't capture all of them, but the outcome of our operation here hinges on the outcome of the Philadelphia operation,” Simcoe explained.

“Ah, and am I to presume that this lovely Miss Peggy Shippen, Jewel of Philadelphia is a part of the operation?”

“Yes, though unwittingly so,” the man said, giving him a humorless smile. “Your second question, Major?”

“Those ship and troop numbers you gave to Woodhull... he knows that they're false. What's to stop Mrs. Strong from submitting different, more accurate numbers, or for the matter, if they chose to engage my maidservant, Abigail?”

“Those numbers are not incorrect, Major,” Simcoe answered. “They're quite accurate. The troops are very much embedded within British forces here and have blended quite well with their fellows. As for the ships...well, two of those ships cannot be seen, at least not on the surface. They are submersibles.

“Thanks to our forces in the European theatre, we have launched a portion of Russia back into the Fission War of 2094 and have acquired two nuclear-fission submarines with advanced sonar capabilities. They'll be able to detect and sink any Patriot or foreign-allied ships within ten-nautical miles that try to approach New York City.”

* * *

_Morristown, the next morning..._

 

“Washington is a weak and feckless leader, blinded by his own arrogance,” Ben stated as he held the quill above the piece of piece of parchment, ready to compose the letter to Lee.

“Eh, too strong,” Sackett answered, peering over his shoulder.

Though Ben knew that his mentor's words yesterday were also meant to dissuade him from writing such a letter, he had decided to pursue the route. However, it was not the only route that he chose to start building incriminating evidence when it concerned Lee's treachery. Caleb, who was also in the barn this morning but rummaging through a few items that Sackett had allowed him to touch, was to follow Lee tonight. With the help of Samantha after their late night session in writing letters back to the Philadelphia admirers, he had over heard Bradford and his cohorts mentioning a quick 'celebratory' trip to Elizabethtown that also involved Lee. Nothing that had happened in the past few days, was 'celebratory' in nature and thus he had grown suspicious.

As for Samantha, she was currently pouring over a map of Philadelphia, marking areas where the most viable of letters in both of their sacks had come from. Ben had made her promise not to mention a word of what had been discussed in his tent last night, and she had agreed to that promise with a solemn affirmation. She and Sackett would depart for Philadelphia the next day after today's courier delivered the replies, under the guise of meeting at least her half of the admirers. Sackett was only going to reinforce Samantha's story about being an uncle living in Setauket who had kindly cared for her and her 'dear brother Benjamin' when their parents had died.

“What about... cold and indecisive?” he asked.

“Indecisive, yes. Cold, sounds a little too personal for among Horatio Gates--”

“What, you still think I'm making this too personal? After what I briefed the barn on?” he asked, glancing back to his mentor.

“Yes--” Sackett began, but was interrupted with a knock on the barn door.

“Nathaniel, are you in there?”

“Yes, you may enter,” Sackett answered.

The door to the barn cracked open slightly and Ben saw Natalie enter, though she was not empty handed. There was a letter in her hand and her expression was set to that of a frown. As soon as she closed the door, she said, “Letter for you, Nathaniel. Came in a few minutes ago by a fast courier. It was addressed to 'N. Sackett' – thought it was for me, but its for you. Sorry.”

Puzzled, he saw his mentor take the letter and read through it before hearing him click his tongue. “Dear, dear...” was all he heard muttered before placing the letter down. “Tallmadge, I'm going to have to borrow one of your agents... Mr. Brewster here in particular.”

“Oy, some one called for me?” Caleb said, popping his head up from the pile of oddities he was currently rummaging through.

“Ridgefield is under siege from the same force that has been described to follow our alleged Captain Simcoe. I have an contact living on the outskirts of the town who has been creating a few gadgets for me... she can take care of herself, but there is something that needs to be smuggled out and cannot fall into the hands of those besieging Ridgefield.”

“Any word on Patriot reinforcements?” Ben asked, greatly concerned.

“No, but considering what you've told me about your counterpart already being alerted to the presence of Simcoe and whatever cohort he is leading in the region, it wouldn't be far-fetched to say that Ridgefield is being defended. Still, the particular item that she has been developing is sensitive.”

“I can leave tonight,” Caleb spoke up, smiling at the prospect of an exciting mission. “Carrie can follow Lee and his people to Elizabethtown, maybe also give me her opinion on Genevieve. What am I fetching?”

“A small replica statue of Michelangelo's David,” Sackett said, waving the letter. “There's something stored inside of it, but it is breakable, so don't drop it or allow it to hit anything or be hit by anything.”

“Small,” he heard Caleb stated before seeing him hold his hands out about shoulder wide, asking, “This big?”

“I'm going to assume it's smaller, since part of the formula was shipped from Europe and it took a lot to make so little of it,” Sackett answered.

“All right then,” Caleb said, grinning widely, “It'll be like I was never there.”

“Aw, I was hoping to see Carrie waylay into a poor, hapless courier for the letter intercept before we leave tomorrow morning,” Samantha spoke up. “I mean, they're always scurrying about, looking like flustered chicken...”

“You know,” Caleb began, nodding in appreciation, “you're right Tall-girl... they do look like flustered chickens...”

“Oh wait!” she suddenly exclaimed, “you're not doing anything too important tomorrow morning, are you, Natalie?”

“Uh,” Natalie answered, taken aback at the sudden enthusiasm that had overtaken Samantha. “Maybe?”

“Come on, you're seriously a bore with all of your reports and stuff... come have some fun with us!”

“I wouldn't call this 'fun',” Sackett muttered. “It's more like treason...”

“Treason?” Natalie immediately asked, narrowing her eyes in anger.

“We're laying a trap for Charles Lee,” Ben hastily clarified, gesturing to the letter on the polygraph platform that he was still writing.

“Right,” she said, unimpressed and without any humor in the tone of her voice.

“See, in this letter, I pose as General Gates and call for Washington to be replaced. I'll intercept the reply from Lee and take it straight to the Commander. It'll be the first piece of evidence he can't ignore, since gathering more evidence will take time. That way, the seeds of doubt will already be planted by the time Carrie returns with more evidence and Agent 355, via that carved ship, finds proof through the Head of British Intelligence.”

“It's genius,” Caleb spoke up. “though I have been meaning to ask, how are you going to get that to Lee's tent?”

“It'll circulate through another General's mail,” he answered. “I've got that handled.”

“So since Mr. Sackett and I are going to Philadelphia tomorrow morning, Caleb's heading to Ridgefield tonight, Carrie's now tailing Lee tonight to Elizabethtown, and tomorrow is the earliest that we can possibly expect a reply from Lee... we need your help in the interception,” Samantha spoke up.

There was a long moment of silence before Natalie noisly sighed, saying, “Fine... fine, I'll help, but I'm not going to rugby tackle or clothesline the poor courier.”

“Aw,” Samantha pouted.

“No,” she insisted. “I nearly broke my collarbone the last time I tried to tackle that freshman during practice. I have a better idea on the intercept.” She stepped over towards a corner near the entrance and crouched down to rummage through a sack that was filled with grain. Pulling out a bottle that was filled with liquid, she took a look at it with admiration on her face before saying, “Picked this up from Setauket while we were there. Technically, its moonshine, but the content is strong enough and has a taste similar to vodka.”

She uncorked the bottle and even at the distance that he was at, Ben thought he smelled something sharp, sweet, and familiar. It had to have been that particular alcoholic drink that his counterpart had offered him while they were playing a game of draughts. “You're going to offer that to the courier?” he hazard a guess.

“Yep,” she answered. “Every time they arrive, we give them at least a drink of water, coffee, or ale to thank them before they start distributing the letters. This should get our courier tipsy enough so that I can temporarily take over his duties. Want to try it?”

“Ah, no thank you. I've already been introduced to it while in Setauket,” he said, shaking his head while Samantha looked positively ecstatic and took the mug of tea she had been sipping from, emptied it on the ground and held it out. Sackett had merely shook his head in exasperation and Caleb had decided to swipe his mug from the table he was working at, dump out the coffee in it and held it out for Natalie to fill.

He saw Natalie pour each a small amount, and while Samantha downed hers in one gulp, grinning like a mad woman, Caleb had taken to sniff the contents within the mug. Taking a cautious sip, his friend coughed several times before gasping, “Jesus, what is this?”

“It's just alcohol, home-brewed, but alcohol,” Natalie answered as if it were quite a normal everyday occurrence of things to happen so far.

“I love it, but damn, does it burn,” Caleb said before taking another cautious sip. After another few moments of coughing, he managed to say, “How are you not affected, Tall-girl?”

“Me?” Samantha said before gesturing to Natalie, “When you're rooming with a Russian-American who occasionally goes back to Russia to import and smuggle in the really good stuff at parties, you learn how to build a tolerance...quick.”

“Well,” Caleb said, as Ben thought he saw him wobble slightly on his feet before taking a seat at the main table of contraptions. “I'm never challenging either of you to a drinking contest until _I_ build a tolerance for this nectar of Eden.”

“And... Lieutenant Brewster here is demonstrating what I expect to happen to the courier tomorrow,” Natalie followed up, corking the bottle again.

“Yeah... I certainly am,” Caleb slurred slightly.

* * *

It was nearing midday by the time Ben was finished with his letter. Approaching the surgeon's tent, he swallowed nervously and tried to make sure that his hands were not shaking. The nervousness that fluttered in his stomach was partially attributed to the fact that he needed to get the forged letter into the pile without the occupant inside the tent knowing any wiser. The other part of his nervousness stemmed from the fact that he was entering the tent that General Arnold occupied and though he longed to sit down and converse with the inspiring man, this particular route with regards to the forged letter was not his ideal way of introduction. He hoped that the man was asleep, having heard that aides had to carry him last night to the surgeon because of the leg wound he had been dealt with at Saratoga.

As he rounded a tent before the surgeon's tent, he saw that the flaps of the tent were open and that it looked like the general was not asleep as he had hoped for. Instead, it looked like the man was awake. Still, Arnold was the only one in camp who would be the best person to enable the letter to pass through hands without anyone knowing the wiser. It was trickery, but it was necessary, especially for Washington. He hoped that if ever discovered, the man would be understanding as to why such deception had to have taken place.

Tucking the forged letter behind him, he peeked in and asked, “Am I interrupting, sir?”

He saw Arnold apply the finishing touches, including a signature, were applied to the letter currently being written by the general. “Not at all,” Arnold stated a bit gruffly. “I was merely informing Congress of my resignation.” Folding the letter, the wax seal was then applied, and it was only then that the general finally looked up. Ben watched for a moment as the general's expression turned into puzzlement before recognition pushed through as Arnold said, “The officers' dinner. You offered me your place at the table.”

“Yes,” he answered, bowing slightly and secretly pleased that Arnold did remember what had happened at the dinner. “Major Benjamin Tallmadge at your service, sir. We would have met earlier, had I not disobeyed my orders.” As he watched the general drop the letter of resignation into the correspondence pile, he took the opportunity with his introduction to step into the tent and closer to the pile. Facing Arnold, he tried to angle himself so that his back was closer to the pile. “I came here to apologize directly. General Washington sent my company to Ridgefield to support your campaign, but I deviated to Setauket on a rescue mission.”

“And whom did you rescue?” Arnold asked, giving him a flat look.

Ben did not flinch at the judgmental gaze within the general's eyes as he stated, “We were supposed to have rescued not only my father, but several other Whigs. I learned that the Tories had set to hang him and the others. Unfortunately, three of the seven were rescued – the others are missing.”

“But I hear that you and your men took Setauket... with some help,” Arnold stated before coughing. Ben saw him take a bottle of wine that had been sitting on a small end table next to his sickbed and uncork it. After the general had drank his fill to subside the coughs, the bottle was re-corked and placed back on the table. “I received word of the strangest of stories being told of the action at Setauket and could scarcely believe it until I saw the twenty-one soldiers embedded in the reinforcements that had been sent up from Morristown. Still, I would have never saved my father – he was not worth any risk.”

Unsure as to what to say, Ben was saved from stumbling through a further apology for the actions taken that deprived Arnold of initial reinforcements when one of the surgeon's mates bustled in, carrying a tray of food. “Your midday meal is ready, sir. Doctor insists,” the man said.

Taking the opportunity that the man had created, and with Arnold's attention now on the surgeon's mate, Ben discreetly dropped the forged letter into the correspondence pile. With his task done, he sought a way out and stepped around the surgeon's mate, saying, “I'll leave you to your midday meal, sir.”

“You weren't dismissed, Tallmadge,” Arnold said. Ben froze mid-step, mind racing and wondering if the general had seen him drop the forged letter. However, his worry was for naught as Arnold continued, saying, “I knew your brother, Samuel.”

Surprised, he turned back as the general said, “He fought for me at Valcour Island. It pained me to hear of his death. He was a fine soldier.”

“Well, thank you, sir,” he managed to say. “It means a great deal to me that you remember him.”

“I never forget his honor,” Arnold answered in a quiet tone. “There is so little of it in this world.” Ben was almost too caught up in the general's words that he nearly missed the entrance and exit of the courier who had come to collect the letters. “Your apology is not accepted,” Arnold continued, “because you did nothing wrong. You disobeyed Washington to save your own father and though he may still be among the missing, your actions have granted us a boon in this war. You did what was right, and we know of the consequences.”

Nodding, not only in partial agreement with the general's words, but also to cover the discomfort he felt with those words, he took a moment longer to sketch another small bow of respect towards Arnold before saying, “Please enjoy your meal, sir.”

This time, Arnold did not stop him and as he exited the tent and back out into the cool autumn atmosphere that surrounded the camp, he let go of the breath he did not realize that he had been holding. With that exhalation came worry, and as he headed to the house, he hoped that one of the three women or all three would be able to shed some specific light as to how circumstances happened in history that caused General Arnold to betray the Patriots; there was something in the general's last words that made him very uneasy.

* * *

_Morristown, the next day..._

 

It was the clatter of hooves on the ground that alerted Ben to the morning courier arriving. Though he was still in the midst of buttoning up his vest, he braced himself for the cold and poked his head out of his tent. From his vantage point, he could only see shades of what was going on at the house, but he did see the courier enter it and the door close. A few moments later, the door opened again and he saw Natalie emerge, with a dark cloak wrapped around her and fluttering around her dress. She had the courier's bag slung over her right shoulder. He didn't wait to catch her eyes as she promptly begun her route around the camp, knowing that she would eventually stop by his tent when the route called for it. That was also if Lee's reply was actually contained within the courier's bag. He hoped it was.

He had just finished shaking out his uniform jacket that had been hanging on the back of his chair when he heard footsteps approach, and a moment later, heard Natalie say, “Major Tallmadge, I have two letters for you.”

“Two?” he questioned, placing his jacket on his cot before opening the tent flap and stepped out.

She merely smiled and handed him the letters. “Two. Apparently, Miss Shippen has answered.”

“Oh,” he said, separating both letters into each hand, with his left holding Lee's reply to 'Gates' and the letter from Miss Shippen. The 'Gates' letter was infinitely much more important than the missives of a Philadelphia Loyalist, but it was something that he could not ignore. A moment later, he tucked Shippen's letter underneath the 'Gates' one and said, “Well, thank you, Agent Sackett. Please give my regards to the courier – he must be nursing quite a headache after that most refreshing drink.”

“Indeed he will be,” Natalie answered with a mischievous look in her eyes. “He drank the entire goblet without pause.”

Gobsmacked he managed to nod once before she left to continue with her duties as the temporary messenger. He was however, shaking out of his surprise by a bitterly cold breeze, and seeing that he was standing out here without his jacket, he returned to the warmth of his tent. Tucking Shippen's letter within one of the stacks, he dropped Lee's letter onto his cot and picked up his jacket. Putting it on, he rubbed his hands together to warm them back up before picking Lee's letter back up and opened it.

As his eyes read line by line, the edges of his lips quirked up more and more until he was openly smiling – this was the evidence he was looking for. This was something that Washington would not be able to ignore, and it would help reinforce whatever intelligence about Lee or his cohorts Brewster would hopefully be bringing back whenever she returned from Elizabethtown.

As for the situation with General Arnold, a small amount of details had been provided with regards to how such a man turned against his own, but it had culminated with the fact that the historical Arnold had become so frustrated with Congress and their ineptitude, along with the eventual French alliance that turned him. Shippen had played an important part in that turning, having colluded and been in contact with Major Andre when the British took Philadelphia – but it didn't happen... at least not now. There was still a chance, and Ben hoped that somehow, he could try to prevent Arnold's defection. He just needed to find a way to befriend Arnold, and from the way the man carried himself, Ben was sure that the man suffered no fools nor sycophants. Arnold had already acknowledged the action at Setauket, even obliquely disagreed with Washington's assessment of the Setauket situation – and he knew that he would have to use that to his advantage.

Quickly folding the letter and placing it within his jacket's inner pocket, Ben knew that he would have to wait until the mid-afternoon to present the letter to Washington. By then, the house would be bereft of most of its occupants and that was normally the time that his commander would usually be found in the main drawing room with the war maps. For now, a quick trip around the camp, not only to ensure that the 2nd Continentals were doing well in the absence of their friends and the rest of the unit, and to listen into idle conversations, hoping to catch opinions on Arnold, would be the order of the morning.

~~~

“Washington will not go. He must be pushed,” he stated, reading the words that had been directly written upon the condemning letter. “If Congress will not rid us of this demagogue, a higher power will intervene and hopefully also expel those black devils that he has summoned.”

“I have heard enough,” Washington quietly interrupted.

Ben looked up and saw that his commander's eyes were slightly narrowed, but other than that, there was virtually nothing on Washington's face to tell him what his commander was thinking. Placing the letter down on the desk, he said, “I wanted you to see General Lee's nature with your own eyes. That part about a 'higher power' sounds like he's calling for your death and the breaking of the alliance with the people from the future.”

“It is damning.”

“I agree,” he said, nodding, “and I think it is more than sufficient to consider relieving Lee of his command.”

“I was not referring to the General,” Washington stated in a chilly tone, picking up the letter. Ben caught his commander's questioning look, hearing him ask, “How did you obtain this?”

A sinking feeling opened up in his stomach as he started, “I--” However, as a furious look passed into Washington's eyes, he defensively said, “I forged a letter to prompt his response.”

“His reply was coerced. You entrapped him through falsehood and created _two_ documents – which if discovered, may shame this army--”

“No, no!” he protested. This was not how he wanted to present the evidence, this was definitely not the way he had envisioned the discussion to go. Trying to salvage what he could, he explained, “The letter I wrote as Gates contained a request that it be burned upon reading. Lee's letter contains the same request. This evidence is for your eyes only! I wanted you to witness his treachery first hand in ink.”

“So that I may do _what_ precisely?” Washington asked in a much too calm and controlled tone for Ben's comfort. “So that I may do _what_?” he repeated in a softer but more menacingly infuriated tone.

“This man has been working to undermine you from--”

“From the day I was appointed,” Washington finished for him. “Along with Gates, Conway, and others. Would you have me court martial them? Hang them? Stone them to death?”

Ben despaired – this was not what he had envisioned and he could feel his own resolve, his own fury at Washington's stubbornness and blindness in not seeing the danger before him, start to overtake him. “No,” he said, shaking his head.

“ _What_ would you have me _do_?”

“I would have you defend yourself!”

The silence that stretched before them seemed to last forever, but it was not so as Washington seemingly said in a low, angry tone, “I am not in danger. America and her future depend on this army and those in Setauket. If we fight ourselves, we will appear to be divided. And disorganized--”

“We are divided!” he interrupted. “We are _greatly_ divided!”

“And the French cannot know it!” Washington roared. Stunned into silence, Ben found that the only actions he took was to blink and even then, the gravity of what he had done was crashing down upon him. However, Washington was not done, though in a calmer but clearly disappointed tone lacing his words, he said, “As the Head of Intelligence, you have so little understand of what is truly at stake.”

“The French?” he questioned, barely acknowledging his commander's admonishing words.

“It's been nearly a year now since the future-people showed up. Nearly a year and we still have not seen a hair or hide of anymore than the 300 men and women garrisoned at eastern Long Island. The French, though most likely occupied with this Napoleon Bonaparte, are the only ones who have the arms, munitions, and _ships_ needed to defeat Howe's army and liberate our cities. With their integration of Britannia forces and their supplies of weapons that shouldn't even exist much less invented until decades after, we need the French or else we have no chance of success. Versailles is watching, waiting to see if we are a worthy ally. Exposing treachery in our highest ranks proves that we are not.”

“Sir...” he began before faltering for a moment. He had made a very grave mistake. “Sir... what of Robert Rogers and the proposal of the Setauket garrison?”

“Ridgefield is burning as we speak,” Washington coldly answered. “What of it?”

Unable to answer for nothing that passed through his thoughts seemed like a good enough answer that would satisfy and sate the anger of his commander for the mess that he had made, he hung his head and weakly said, “Sir, I... I was only trying to protect you--”

“It is better to offer no excuse than a bad one.”

Ben could not bring himself to meet his commander's eyes, and despite himself, he said, “Forgive me, sir...”

“It is not my task to teach you better sense,” Washington said as Ben tried to meet the general's eyes but found that he still could not. “I am not your father, and you are not my son.”

It was as much of a dismissal as he would receive in such conditions. Nodding as his head was still kept down, he turned away from his commander and quietly crossed the remaining length of the room. Opening the door to the main drawing room, he stepped out and closed it just as quietly. Guilt, along with anger at himself for not having the sense to open his eyes on the divisive path that he had inadvertently carved clawed at him. As he slowly made his way down the hall and to the foyer, he thought he heard something heavy slam into the ground within Washington's office, but he was too wrapped up in the error of what he had done to acknowledge it.

Opening the door to the house and exiting into world, he stopped at the threshold and stared at the camp that laid before them. Men, ecstatically talking amongst themselves, and a carefree atmosphere surrounded the camp. There were absolutely no external signs of division, though it could only be found once a person took a closer listen to the various conversations that dotted the place. He couldn't go back there, not right now, not after what he had done. Instead, he close the door and slowly made his way down the stairs and around the perimeter of the house.

When he got to the back, he stopped and leaned against the siding, staring out at the fields and forests that surrounded the back. The shed that Rogers and his men was some distance away and he knew that there were a few men camped out within the unharvested wheat field. Those men rotated with the sentry duty that circled the camp, but with the field so high, Ben could not see them at all. It gave him a semblance of peace and of being alone with his own thoughts.

That peace was shattered though, with the sudden creak and loud noise of the cellar doors near him opening. He moved to pretend that he had not been idly standing here, especially while there were plenty of other tasks that he had to do around the camp and within his own tent, but stopped as he saw who was climbing out of the cellar.

There was a solemn look upon Natalie's face as she climbed out, carrying two small vials in her hand and closed the cellar doors behind her. Though a part of him rebelled at the thoughts that suddenly crossed his mind, the more rational part of him knew that his initial thoughts were true. She was much too perceptive, too well-versed in espionage and intelligence analysis to not have seen this coming. She had known the consequences of his actions, his mission to prove Lee a traitor...and she didn't stop him.

“You heard the argument, didn't you?” he asked, looking away in shame as she stopped before him.

“Yes.”

“Did you know what was going to happen?” he hesitatingly asked, feeling betrayed not only by her actions with the Frenchman a couple of days ago, but for not stopping him before he undertook such a rash action.

“Yes.”

“Then why...” he began but faltered.

“It cannot be taught, Ben,” she answered. “I, Samantha, Carrie, and Nathaniel cannot teach it to you. Experience is what is needed, and as painful as it is or was, you now know just how dangerous and secretive this world is. How much we must lie not only to ourselves and those around us, but to those we love. It's consuming and no matter how hard you try, you can never erase the regrets.”

 

~*~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amaranthe (HMS Amaranthe) was an actual 18-gun sloop, but was historically launched in 1804 and served in the Caribbean. Readers familiar with my "Hornblower and the Meridian" fic will recognize some of the named ships listed in Abe's report – the names were reused/recycled from that story.


	9. Gambits, We Don't Need No Stinkin' Gambits

**Chapter 9: Gambits, We Don't Need No Stinkin' Gambits**

 

_Somewhere north of New York City_

 

It was the sounds of rapid footsteps running through and snapping the leaf-and-branches-covered ground that woke him up from the light doze that he had fallen into. Fortunately, with the many patrols that he and his men had taken over the course of the nearly two years since they had mustered and marched from Wethersfield, his stirring barely caused a whisper or movement within the bushes and rather large pile of leaves that he had hidden himself in. As he carefully extracted himself from the thick woolen blanket that had been his tent and sleeping roll for the past few days, the running footsteps approached.

With his eyes long honed to the darkness of the woods that surrounded this small creek, he silently withdrew his pistol and saw a person hurry by where he was lying on his stomach. Said person was dressed in dark clothing, but Ben recognized the gait and statue of the man approaching the tree hollow anywhere. Crawling as quietly as he could out of the leaves and bushes that he had been hiding in, he approached just as he saw his friend peek into the hollow of the tree, and leveled his pistol straight at him before cocking the flintlock back.

He saw his friend move slightly and caught a glint of a small knife from the fading sunlight that streamed through the leafless forest. He could not help but laugh at just how tiny of a knife that Abraham Woodhull carried. “What the hell is that?!” he asked, though because of just how long he had been out in the elements with only bushes and leaves, along with a wool blanket to protect him from the cold, he coughed most of his words out.

“Ben?!” Abe exclaimed, turning around, surprise etched across his face. “Ben?”

Grinning as his coughs subsided, though the sharp cold air still irritated his throat, he shook his head slightly and asked, “Christ, what day is it?” As soon as the words left his lips, he inwardly also admonished himself for using the Savior's name in vain – he most definitely had been spending too much time around the future-people.

A puzzled look appeared on Abe's face as he heard his friend say, “It's Monday... wait, how long have you been out here for?”

Sighing, he dragged his floppy hat, borrowed from Samantha that she had been wearing the first time they had met, from his head. Scratching the brambles from his hair, he shrugged slightly – he had lost count of just how many days he had been lying in wait for Abe to show up but upon hearing that it was Monday, he said, “Two, three days? I thought you checked the dead drop at week's end.”

Abe shook his head, saying, “No. I check it when I can. You want to tell me what the hell you're doing here? Why isn't Caleb here?”

“Sorry,” he apologized, as he shifted the small sack that was slung over the civilian clothes that he had hastily acquired for this mission. “He's on assignment in Connecticut.”

With Sackett and Samantha on a second trip to Philadelphia the day before he had left, he had, with Brewster's help, 'acquired' some civilian clothing. In turn, she had privately conveyed troubling news about Lee while she had been in Elizabethtown. While it had not been enough to add to the ledger he was building on Lee, it did warrant a closer look. She too was also most likely out on a second mission to the town to continue spying on Lee and his cohorts, for it had been Natalie who had overheard conversations within Lee's cabal about making another trip to Elizabethtown for 'celebrations'.

As for Natalie, she continued preparing and distributed the counter-intelligence reports on all the generals' desks, but neither he nor her had brought up the matter of what happened with the forged letter and her words to him. There was a palpable distance, both professionally and personally, now between them. Though Ben tried to managed to refrain himself from mixing his personal feelings into the matter, it was hard not to. In his second reply to Peggy Shippen's amorous letter, it had taken him several attempts to write a suitable reply that did not contain the frustration he felt towards Natalie. The guise of writing Miss Shippen while pretending that she was Natalie still had merits, but there was an ache within his heart that seemed as distinct as the ache in his heart for Washington's admonishment of his most recent actions.

Caleb was still somewhere north of him, most likely already in the Danbury-Ridgefield area and in the midst of completing his assignment. He hoped that his friend would be all right – Washington's succinct report on the fact that Ridgefield burning was not reassuring, but since that argument and revelation about the dire need for French support, he had not had a face-to-face conversation with his commander. Compiled scouting reports had been delivered to the house's door and Washington's manservant, Billy Lee, had taken the reports himself. Even Washington's aide-de-camps had occasionally stopped by his tent to pick up reports before he, Ben, could attempt to deliver it to the house.

When the mission to send Abe and the others of the spy ring inside of New York City more secure methods to encrypt and deliver their information had been finalized, Ben not only volunteered to go, he wanted to leave Morristown for a few days. It had been mainly to get away from the tension that seemed to hang around the house, his tent, and the barn. He had justified it out loud by says that his agents in the city only trusted him and Caleb.

“This can't wait,” he continued to say. “Is there any way that you can possibly fetch Anna and bring her back here? It's about--”

“No,” Abe immediately interrupted, shaking his head quite vigorously. “You tell me what you have and I pass that along, all right? This place isn't safe.”

It was refreshing to hear that his friend's paranoia was still quite acute, despite the lack of reconnaissance that Abe had done before checking the tree hollow. “Well,” he said, clapping his hand on Abe's shoulder, “if it were that simple, I'd written it in a letter. This has to be in person.” Slinging the satchel off of his shoulder, he shoved it into Abe's hands, saying, “Besides, I come bearing gifts!”

Abe gave him a dubious look as he took the satchel and opened it. Peering inside for a moment, he said, “It's a little too early for Father Christmas to arrive with food and drinks, Ben.”

“Just slide those over,” he answered. “Stuff's on the bottom.” He heard the clink of bottles and saw the satchel shift slightly as the weight of its contents was redistributed by Abe's hand.

“Interesting...” Abe said as he removed his hand and closed the satchel. “But its still too dangerous out here, and there's no way I can come up with a plausible excuse to bring Anna out here. However, there might be a place up this creek where we can talk. You're just going to have to go to the village fish market with me. Hope you have some coin on you.”

“Okay, I'll bite,” he said, grinning as he heard Abe groan at his incredibly lame attempt at humor. Gesturing for him to follow, he and the farmer started back off, headed towards the nearest village.

“All right, so the excuse for you traveling with me is that you're also a farmer like me,” Abe dictated in quiet tone, “and that you've heard about the experimental techniques that I've been conducting with regards to fertilizing the soil within the city to yield more bountiful crops. That's how I've been able to come out here – Major Hewlett is among those who know that I occasionally venture out to the local fish markets to sample what they have and see if the fish caught fresher out here than within the city... which by the way, cost an arm and a leg to just buy within the city, helps with my farming experiment. I've been gutting and burying pieces of fish into the small farmland in the hopes that it will help revitalize the soil – my crop from this past harvest season was not as bountiful as it was the year before... so there is truth to this experiment I'm conducting.”

“So I'm to also buy fish?” Ben asked.

“Yeah,” Abe answered, glancing over at him. “You're going to have to, else you'll look pretty suspicious just standing there while I'm buying fish. Don't worry, we'll go to a pub after visiting the fishmonger. Pub's owned by a man named Underhill – the place is a haven for seedy stuff...so, better watch yourself.”

There was a rather challenging smile on Abe's expression and Ben was mildly pleased to see that his friend had grown quite confident in his dealings, especially with regards to espionage and the elaborate cover story that had quite a lot of truth to it. “You know me,” he answered in kind. “I'm always ready.”

“Ah yeah,” Abe said, “but there are no rules for us out here. No martial laws or obedience, just fear... much like what happened during the spring at Setauket...”

“Look Abe,” he said, stopping. “I'll say it again. I'm sorry. All--”

“711 has his numbers, right?” Abe interrupted. “And I'll keep sending what ever I can. Just... just please let me know when its going to happen. Promise me, Ben. I don't want my family to be in the city when it's invaded.”

“I promise,” he said, and he meant it. “You, your family, Anna... we'll let you know. I won't let it be like Setauket again.”

“Good,” Abe said as they resumed walking again.

It wasn't long before they arrived at the edge of the village and headed towards the fishmonger. While Abe did most of the talking and pointing out of several freshly harvested fish from the Hudson, Ben occasionally emitted a noise of interest and nodded to his words. Because of Abe's familiarity with the inhabitants of the village, none paid them any heed. After selecting the fish that Abe had suggested, he produced the same amount of coin that his friend had and paid the merchant. With both fish wrapped up in thick, pulpy parchment to mask the smell and preserve them for the journey, Abe placed both into the satchel then guided him towards the two-story tavern.

The noise of rather rowdy patrons greeted his ears as soon as he stepped into the tavern after Abe had. There was a distinctly rancid smell assaulting his nose, and smoke within the tavern was so thick that it made his eyes water. With a jaunty wave towards the owner who was currently bringing a pitcher of ale towards a rather drunken group of civilians, Ben saw Abe gesture towards the back of the tavern. He saw the tavern owner nod and not a moment later, Abe sauntered off, headed to what looked more like private areas for patrons to drink in some semblance of peace.

Sliding into the chair in the further corner of the tavern, it didn't escape Ben's notice that Abe had taken the seat directly at the further point of the entrance to the small booth to give himself a clear and unmitigated view of anyone who would approach. Sliding into the seat next to Abe, he saw the satchel being _thunk_ ed on the table and not a few moments later, a rather well-endowed woman bustled in.

“The usual for you, farmer-boy?” the woman asked with a rather saucy smile gracing her ruddy, apple-shaped face.

“Yep,” Abe answered without a trace of nervousness in his voice.

“And who's your handsome friend here? Also a farmer?”

“John,” Ben answered, with as best of a disarming smile as he could muster. It had been Samantha, during the summer in the times that she had traveled to Ridgefield, who had started to give him tips on how to blend into crowds if necessary. He never thought he needed to use the skills she had been trying to impart on him, thinking that it was Caleb who loved to go on all sorts of infiltration assignments, but now it was quite handy. “And yes, I'm a cabbage farmer. I'll also have what he's having.”

He did not miss the rather smoldering up-and-down look that the tavern wench raked over him before she purred, “That's two pints of the house ale then. Maybe you can show me some of your _farming_ techniques later, John.”

He spluttered just as he heard Abe burst out laughing as the wench swiveled away, swaying her hips this way and that. He tore his eyes away from the rather hypnotic 'dance' and glared at his friend until the laughter subsided. Shaking his head slightly he sighed and opened the satchel.

“You know, you're the first person that I've seen Lizzy do that to,” Abe said, still chuckling as Ben took out one of the wrapped fish and set it on the table. He remained silent, not even attempting to dignify that comment with one of his own.

At the same time, he had also taken out the carefully wrapped item that had been tucked away towards the bottom of the satchel. Pushing the satchel towards the middle of the table, Abe took the wrapped fish and untied until it's silver and dark-grey scales shone within the dim lighting of the tavern. Ben had hidden the wrapped object under a portion of the parchment wrap as he saw the tavern wench return with their drinks.

Two pints were set down on the table, with Lizzy bending a little more than necessary, allowing him quite a teasing view of her rather ample breasts that were covered only by the thin cloth of her dress' plunging neckline. Despite himself, an appreciative smile quirked up the sides of his lips before she winked at him, righted herself, and sauntered off. As Abe barked in laughter again, Ben dragged both pints over towards them and shoved one into his friend's hands while he quickly took the other and forced himself to take two gulps.

Plunking the pint back down on the table, he set it next to the fish as he refocused himself on the task at hand. Abe had done the same and with a quick glance around, he saw no prying eyes and brought the small, wrapped item back up, using the fish, the satchel, and their pints as walls. Though the stench of a dead fish wasn't quite as overpowering as he thought it would be, it was still distinct enough that it would at least keep most people away.

Unwrapping the item, he carefully set the small wooden stand with two corked vials of liquid and a small brush centered between the vials on the edge of the table closest to them, asking in a low tone, “Do you have a scrap piece?”

“Yeah,” Abe nodded as Ben saw him lift up the left sleeve of his jacket and shirt to see that there was a leather strap that held his small knife along with a tiny pocket for pieces of paper and a even tinier quill that was already inked in black. Taking a scrap from the small, thumb-sized notebook, Abe set it on the table before allowing the ensemble to vanish back under the cover of his shirt and jacket.

“I know the codebook, the ink, they're not entirely safe, even after we've rewritten it.” Removing a tiny quill from under the layers of his shirt and jacket, he uncorked the first vial, the clear one, and dipped the quill into it. Removing the quill and scratching out a small message on the scrap, he said, “This here...”

Looking up, he caught Abe's dubious glance over at him as he heard his friend state in a deadpanned tone, “That's brilliant.”

Ignoring the dismissive comment, he shook his hand slightly with the quill and gestured towards the clear vial, saying, “This here is the agent.” Placing the quill down and picking up the brush before uncorking the other vial, a faintly greenish color if one was to actually look at it in the light, he dipped the brush in. Removing that, he swept the brush across the scrap, saying, “This is the reagent. You just have to apply a little bit of this with a very fine brush. It took months of experimenting with different chemical compounds to acquire this much. Just wait for it to react and dry...”

“Uh huh,” Abe murmured as Ben recorked both vials and placed the tiny brush back in its holder before sliding the tiny quill next to the brush. Wrapping the ensemble back up, he slid it back under the cover of the parchment wrap. Fortunately, neither of them had to wait long for the agent and reagent to react and dry when what Ben had spelled out on the tiny scrap could start to be seen even in such a dim enviroment.

“Aw come on,” Abe protested, though Ben saw him smile at what was written. “You spelled me!”

“What did I tell you?” he said, nodding. “Invisible ink. Now, I also need you to instruct Culper Junior and Anna on how to apply this. There's also something else in the sack that I need you to give to Anna. It's a carved ship that was made to look like Abigail's son carved it. She needs to get it to Abigail. There are instructions on how to compose her intelligence reports wrapped within the bowspirit of the ship.”

He dared not reveal that there were additional instructions for Abigail to acquire hard evidence against Lee from the heart of British Intelligence. Abe did not need to pass that particular information on to Anna. The less information about Lee's treachery was known to those outside of Morristown, the better it would be to prevent any argument that could easily refute the collection of evidence.

“I can do that,” Abe said.

“Now, I'm also curious about the man you named Culper Junior,” he began, taking his pint of ale and sipping from it. “I know that you mentioned him twice already in your reports, but 711...” He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should bother Abe with what was happening in Morristown. Though most of it stemmed from his own fault at the disaster he had nearly created, he decided that he still owed it to Abe to inform him of at least a glimpse of the situation... just in case. “711 may not trust me. I-I've earned his disappointment as of late and I need something to make up for that. Something real or else I'm out!”

“Well,” Abe began after taking a sip of his own ale. “Culper Junior is originally from Oyster Bay. He owned a boarding house before the British slammed up some false charges against him. They arrested his father and he managed to escape. He's been hiding on the lam, though it's Anna who has the most contact with him and the little cabal that he runs in the slums. She feeds them with scraps from her job at the northern officer's garrison boarding house and he and the others provide her and occasionally me information.”

Ben gave his friend a doubtful look, but Abe was not deterred by it and explained, “Trust me, Ben. He's completely trustworthy. He has an inkling as to what Anna and I do with the information that he and his boys give us, but we've been thinking of bringing him fully into the ring. He's very smart and very discreet. He won't let the others in on the secret. Anna's position within the officer's boarding house, and mine as a recovering farmer doesn't allow either of us as much freedom as Culper Junior. He knows his way in and out of the city and can bring messages faster to the hollow than either of us.”

“Okay.”

“And you can tell 711 that we should have a count of fort personnel on either side of the Sound River and Hudson by winter's end. We're still trying to figure out how to actually cross either rivers without drawing attention, much less attempt to count armaments.”

“That's a good start,” Ben said as he smiled. “Thank you, my friend.”

* * *

_Somewhere between Ridgefield and Danbury, Connecticut_

 

First snow of the winter season had already lightly coated the ground, giving the atmosphere a much eerier feeling than the dead trees that still contained browned, wilted leaves hanging off the tops of them. Grey clouds, illuminated by the pale moon, along with the thick smell of burning smoke and fire choked the air, but it was not coming from the woods – it came from the still-burning buildings within the town of Ridgefield. As much as Caleb had wanted to charge into the town on horseback and help the residents evacuate, he did not – there was a mission to be had, and Sackett had pulled him aside to explicitly state that he was not to go gallivanting off in pursuit of bandits. Whatever the older man needed from this particular house in between Ridgefield and Danbury was quite vital.

His horse whickered softly as he pulled the reins to stop it. Dismounting, he draped the rein over a small branch and took a quick look around. At such a close distance to where the center of Ridgefield was burning, he had been sure that the woods surrounding the house he was approaching were crawling with enemy combatants. However, after an hour of riding around a wide perimeter, he had not seen a soul, and neither had there been a sign of life within the house.

Quietly and quickly emerging from the woods, hopping over the small stone wall and approaching the house, he decided that the most forward manner would be the best. Climbing the steps up to the front entrance, he swiftly rapped on the door. There was no immediate answer, and another quick look around showed that the curtains covering the windows did not move. Had he arrived at the wrong house?

Deciding to chance the set of identifying code words that Sackett had told him to say, rather than stay out here in the cold, he said out loud, “Liberation for the sons of Michelangelo!”

The door was swiftly opened and before he could react, a hand snatched him by the front of his leather long coat and pulled him into the house. Plunged into darkness as the door closed swiftly behind him, he stumbled back further into the house as the same hand twirled and let him go. He managed to get a half shout of protest out before the unmistakable sound of flint striking steel was heard and the sparks generated gave some light. However, a flame was quickly struck true and not a moment later, a small candle in a holder was lit.

As Caleb's eyes quickly adjusted, he saw that there was a woman behind the candle, but she held it far from her so that he could barely see her face at all. However, she answered the code words in a low tone, saying, “For they will never be as great as the one maestro, Leonardo.”

“Ah, good,” he said, smiling slightly as he rubbed his hands together to get some warmth into them. “I'm--”

“I don't need to know your name. I know who sent you. The less I know about you, the better,” the woman interrupted him.

“Um... all right then,” he said after a moment. “So... where's this thing I'm supposed to carry back with me?”

“Here,” the woman answered as she turned from him and crossed into what he could barely identify in the dark house as a drawing room. He followed the candle light instead, and when she stopped, he stopped too. The flame was panned over the small satchel, and he could see a vague shape of a statue within it. Picking it up, he hefted it slightly, noting that despite the small size of it, it was heavier than he imagined.

“What's it made of?”

“Clay,” she answered. “But there is additional materials packed within the hollow of it to ensure that what is stored in the center of it does not easily fall or break. That being said, a musket ball will still shatter it.”

“Aye,” he said, slinging it over his head and left shoulder before adjusting the sack so that it was sitting diagonally across his chest instead of on his back. “I'll get this to safety.”

“There's one more thing,” she said, blowing out the candle as the distant sounds of horses could be heard approaching. “Tell him that 'Pikadilly is not answering'.”

“Pikadilly is not answering,” he repeated seeing her faint outline and following her back into the foyer.

“Yes, now go,” she insisted.

“Wait,” he said, before she could open the door. He pulled out the double-barreled pistol with the spring-loaded bayonet from his holster. He still had his normal pistol in the holster on his left side, and his rifle was tied to the saddle of his horse. Pressing it into the hands of the woman, he said, “Take this. I can't leave a woman unarmed.”

Silence answered him, but he felt her wrap her hands around the unique weapon before she said, “Thank you. Now go, before they arrive!”

Quickly opening the door and dashing out, he broke into a run as he glanced back, trying to see if those razing Ridgefield were closing in on the house. He could hear them, but even with the weak moonlight, all he could see were the silhouettes of trees and the dusting of snow reflecting the silver light. Snatching the rein off of the branch, he climbed as quickly as he could on his horse and spurred the beast forward.

Keeping his head as low as possible to avoid the branches, the thunder of hooves hitting the cold ground, along with the wind whipping across his ears filled the silence. However, it was soon shattered by unnatural-sounding shouts along with the familiar sounds of _bzzt-bzzt_ filling the air. The sharp scent of the blue-bolts seared into the cold night, and was swiftly followed by the smell of burnt wood, as he risked a quick glance behind him.

Ben had provided him quite a detailed description of what the so-called 'black devilry' cavalry group that the future Major Tallmadge led looked like, but to see them now was still terrifying. He could see shadows of darkness, liquid-like even with the faint moonlight shining through the leaf shorn trees. It was also the glowing red eyes of the beasts covered in the same 'armor' that gave away their location within the woods. It looked like the Devil himself was coming for him, and even as he kicked the sides of his horse and urged it to go faster, his pursuers were not faltering.

The only saving grace that kept him from the jaws of the horsemen was the fact that their wild shooting of their advanced rifles were felling branches and the like, along with setting parts of the thick forest on fire – allowing him to better see where his pursuers were. Caleb knew that if he wanted to lose them, he had to build a distance, and the only way he knew how to was to head south, towards the burning town of Ridgefield. Besides, fire never played well with anything, and with luck, perhaps navigating around the burning buildings in the town would allow him to lose the horsemen.

Tearing out of the thick woods, he glanced behind him again and fourteen horsemen and their leader stream out like oozing black tar. The leader of the cavalry group had retracted a part of the armor to show his head, and even with such a faint illumination lighting the field, he identified the man.

Captain John Graves Simcoe.

Sans the powered wig that the man had worn the last time Caleb had seen him, there was no doubt in his mind that he should have pulled the trigger when he had the chance. The bastard had somehow acquired weapons and what he could only assume as 'robotic' horses from somewhere. The anger that he had tempered down into a simmer since his argument with Ben those weeks ago threaten to erupt again, but it was the weight of Sackett's package thumping against his chest that snapped him out of his red haze. Still, he snatched up his rifle and kept a finger on the trigger.

He did not get a chance to fire the weapon for when he looked back up and forward across the clearing and into the next band of thick forest, he saw a cluster of men and horsemen emerging. If it were not for the fact that the moonlight was illuminating the fact that the men and cavalry were carrying an assortment of rifles both flintlock and advanced-looking in their blocky shape, he would have thought them to be Patriot forces come to take revenge on the burning of the Connecticut towns. That and the familiar-looking dark cap with a single feather sticking up in the center of the cap that gave him pause.

Sheridan's Rangers had come from the south, and as soon as Caleb made that connection, he tugged his horse's reins sharply to the left. Behind him, he thought he faintly heard Simcoe shout some orders, but he was already high-tailing it out of the field. The way the Rangers were advancing across the clearing, and the fact that he could hear the wine of advance rifles being powered up and ready to be unleashed along with the clear sound of flintlock hammers being cocked back, told him that neither group was allied with each other. He had inadvertently led Simcoe's group into the mysterious Ranger group.

While Ben's counterpart had given them some information during that short debrief, it seemed that people knew little of the group, other than they were just as deadly as the Queen's Rangers. He was not about to stick around to see or confirm if Sheridan's Rangers were truly fighting against Simcoe and his ilk of devilish horsemen. Even with his horse's labored breathing at being run so hard, Caleb barely made it to the edge of the woods just as both sides unleashed their weaponry.

Sharp branches whipped at his face, but he tucked his rifle and arm close to the package he was carrying as he continued to charge through. He needed to continue heading south eastwards, towards Stratford. He hoped that his horse had enough strength to at least make it to a particular farmhouse in North Fairfield – there was a blacksmith he knew there who would have fresh horses ready--

_Pwot!_

Caleb lost his seat on his horse as it reared with the rifle shot, sending him into the hard ground. He landed painfully on his rear and back before the back of his head also hit the ground. Stars exploded into his eyes as he dropped his rifle and tried to clutch the package closer to him to prevent it from being shattered. As the stars in his eyes slowly subsided, he tried to get his bearings, but his body refused to obey his commands to get up. He didn't know how long he laid on the cold ground, his legs and back throbbing with pain that mirrored his disorientation, but it was long enough that he saw someone step up and loom over him.

“Aye, looks like we caught one, boys.”

“Robert Rogers,” he muttered as he recognized the face and was hauled up by his arms. Dizziness along with a headache clawed at him, but he didn't relax his grip on the statue and gave as best of a glare as he could towards the Ranger.

“Eh, you look like a familiar pup,” Rogers said as Caleb's fuzzy vision was filled with the the visage of the Ranger peering at him. He tried to draw himself back, but the two vice-like grip on his arms held fast.

“Let him go, Rogers,” another voice, familiar and authoritative spoke up.

“Don't think I should have my boys do that, Tallmadge,” Rogers stated in a smug tone. “The lad here hit his head when he fell from his horse. Must be feeling that right about now, eh?”

“And whose fucking fault is that, Rogers?” Caleb heard Tallmadge fire back with equal intensity as he saw Ben's counterpart step into his vision that was slowly becoming clearer as he continued to stand. With the faint moonlight, all he could see of Tallmadge's face was his eyes – there was some paint of sort covering the man's face – along with many others around the area. No such dark paint was covering Rogers's people.

“Hey, the lad was charging through the woods with one of your fancy rifles,” Rogers answered. “Your reports said that we should expect blended riflemen from your era. I ain't letting my boys get shot up.”

“Well,” Caleb managed to huff out as less painful hands exchanged grips on his arm and something cold was placed against his head. “Jesus, that's cold!”

“Here, swallow this, Lieutenant,” Tallmadge said, shoving a tin flask and something as tiny as a seed and oblong in shape into his open hand as he tried to turn his head to see who exactly had pressed what felt like a ball of snow against his head. “It'll help you feel better.” With his vision clearing a little more, Caleb managed to eye the tiny seed-like thing before noticing that even Rogers was giving Tallmadge a quizzical look. “Swallow it, Lieutenant. Don't chew it. You have a concussion and it will help alleviate at least your headache.”

Giving the man the benefit of the doubt, for he had no reason to suspect it to be poison or anything ill, he placed the oblong seed into his mouth and took a quick gulp out of the tin flask. Handing the flask back to Tallmadge, he waited, but his headache remained and he still felt slightly dizzy. “What the hell did I just eat?”

“Give it some time,” Tallmadge answered. “In the mean time, what are you doing here? Is Ben or the 2nd Light with you?”

Caleb opened his mouth to answer before remembering that Rogers was still present, along with what he could only assume as Rogers' men, judging by the clothes several people in the area were wearing. However, mixed in with Rogers's people were also the men and women wearing the BDUs of the future army. Were the two disparate groups actually working together? Had Tallmadge actually convinced Rogers to turn to the Patriot side?

“Boy, we don't have time for this. While you may be content in having your balls freeze off in this weather, Ridgefield is burning to a nice crisp and my men and I would like to go warm our hands there,” Rogers impatiently said.

“I'm on a mission,” he answered, glaring at Rogers, but did not elaborate – even if Tallmadge was working with Rogers, he did not trust the Ranger at all. “Saw Simcoe and fourteen others wearing the all-black armor while riding the robotic horses, torching everything in their path. They were chasing me, but then I ran into the Sheridan Rangers coming up from the south. They look like they're armed with these fancy rifles and flintlocks.”

“Is that part of your mission?” Tallmadge asked, pointing to the statue which was still safely hidden away in the sack and unbroken according to how it felt against his chest. Caleb remained silent. He would neither confirm or deny what he had been asked to retrieve. The less they knew of his mission, the better, and it was not only because of Rogers and his men being present. God forbid that he would actually admit to the fact that he was becoming as paranoid as Sackett was becoming about enemy spies and the like wherever he was.

After a moment longer, Tallmadge merely nodded and said, “Complete your mission, Lieutenant, and thank you for the information. Leave Ridgefield and Danbury to us. We'll take care of Simcoe and the others.” As Tallmadge stepped away, the two people holding him upright also did, and the packed snow against his head was removed. Though he wobbled, he steadied himself as he started to feel the headache subside. He was still dizzy, but the need to sit back down and rest was fading.

There was a sharp whistle as he gave one last glare towards Rogers who merely gave him a short, angry smile before he too stepped away to gather his men. “Patel,” he heard Tallmadge say, “Bring the Lieutenant's horse and go with him until his mission is complete.”

“Yes, sir,” the woman answered.

“Oy,” he protested, “I don't need a watcher.”

“You have a concussion, Lieutenant,” Tallmadge said, stepping back into his vision, before holding out his rifle that he had dropped. “It means that your brain has smacked a little too hard against your skull, but only enough to give you a wicked headache, dizziness, and a host of other symptoms that makes you feel like shit. From the looks of it and how you're responding, it looks like it was also not enough to cause brain bleed or permanent damage. I would order you to stay here and rest until we're sure you're going to be okay, but its too dangerous for any of us to remain here right now. Best bet is for one of my people to escort you so that you don't pass out while riding.”

“But--”

“No buts, Brewster. Otherwise, I knock you out myself and hog-tie you to your horse, _and_ have Patel send your unconscious body on its merry way back to Morristown.”

“You know, Tall-green-boy,” he began as he saw a rather unusually tall woman lead his still slightly spooked horse towards him before stopping.

Steadying himself for a moment before mounting the beast, he took the rein from the woman before seeing her remove a cube from a pocket and place it on the ground next to where he had been standing. She pressed a small area within the cube and a horse-like shape quickly grew out from the cube. The woman mounted her own robotic beast before pressing something on the right side of her beast's ear that initiated a flowing black liquid river to spring out from the mouth of the horse and stream across both rider and beast. It solidified into the armor that he had seen Simcoe and his cavalry wear, leaving only the two glowing red eyes of the eerie beast showing.

“Jesus,” he couldn't help but mutter in unease as he somehow managed to tear his gaze away from the demonic-looking creature and rider and back towards Tallmadge and the others. “You know,” he said after a moment, repeating his words. “You're just as much of an arsehole as Ben was...is. Maybe an even bigger one than he is.”

“Must be a family trait,” came the genial, casual reply.

“Good hunting and Godspeed,” he said, grinning.

“You too.”

* * *

“Didn't pin you for being soft, _boy_ ,” Rogers said as the clatter of hooves hitting the ground faded and the relative silence of a cold winter's woods wrapped around the loitering people.

“Didn't pin you for being such a sissy, _old man_ ,” Tallmadge answered. “Frightened of one rider crashing through the woods. Though your _boys_ had bigger balls than that.”

Angry murmurs, along with a few sounds of flintlock rifles and pistols having their hammers drawn back were heard, just as they were answered by the faint whine of laser rifles being powered up. Neither leaders of the two groups moved for a moment, glittering eyes sizing each other up, daring to show any weakness or acknowledgment of what had just been exchanged.

“These Sheridan's Rangers,” Rogers said after a moment. “What are they to you?”

“Well, that's for your Queen's Rangers to find out, isn't it?” Tallmadge said in a casual tone. “They're a bigger threat than Simcoe and his fourteen riders. Think you're up to the challenge, Rogers?”

“Think you can tread on my land and have your boys and girls keep up?” Rogers answered before turning slightly towards Akinbode and said, “Which way?”

“North now,” the man answered. “Simcoe must have turned back towards Ridgefield.”

“Never pinned him as a coward to turn from a fight. Danbury it is then,” Tallmadge said, shaking his head slightly. “I need fourteen riders with me. I'll leave the rest of the assault up to you, Rogers. I trust you will utilize the rest of my people to great effect.”

“Don't you have orders from the great General Washington to save both towns, Tallmadge?” Rogers asked in tone that bordered on sarcasm. “Continuing this civil war between Simcoe and these Rangers will only burn them to the ground.”

“Since when did you care about Washington's orders? Heightening this civil war will keep either parties from burning more towns,” Tallmadge answered, plucking his own robotic horse cube out of a pocket. “After all, neither are allies with each other and is not dividing and conquering the most effective measure to end either party? Tell me, Rogers, who's soft now?”

Rogers was silent as fifteen horses sprang from their cubes. Moments later, their riders mounted the eerie beasts before each donned armor over both machine and man. “One more thing, Rogers,” Tallmadge said opening a tiny slit in the all-black liquid-like scaled armor he wore so that only his eyes were showing. “Washington is sending a Major Bradford to help. He will be arriving with a relatively small host at the Pinebrook Inn in North Fairfield by week's end. That is our rendezvous point. Hope you can make it.”

Rogers merely gave Tallmadge an expectant look and not a moment later, the fourteen black riders and their leader left the area. “I remember a pup named Bradford,” Rogers murmured to himself. “General Lee's man...”

“Sir?” Akinbode questioned.

“Take five boys and five of his,” he said, gesturing towards the remaining men and women. “Do whatever you need to and keep Simcoe and his devils in Ridgefield. I want to see what chaos will be caused by the young pup and this Sheridan's Rangers in Danbury...”

* * *

_New York City..._

 

“Hmm, cozy place,” Abe murmured as he looked around the rather dank and musty-smelling cellar that was to be their new headquarters for intelligence gathering.

“Oh hush, Abe,” Anna answered, lighting a second candle that had been placed in the back of the cellar before bringing the first one to the small desk that contained a quill, several sheaf of parchment, inkwell, and the leather-bound codebook.

Placing the sack that still contained the fish he had brought at the village market outside of the city, he opened it and rummaged around to find and bring out the invisible ink contraption and gently placed it on the table. Next came the rather crudely carved boat and he also sat that on the table. Putting the rest of the sack on the floor, he unwrapped the first object and held it near the candle. “Invisible ink,” he said, pointing to the first vial that looked clear. “That's the agent, so we write out any really sensitive information with this. And this--” he pointed to the slightly greenish-colored vial “--is the reagent. We use the brush in the center to wipe the reagent across the parchment to reveal any hidden messages from Ben.”

“Fascinating,” she said, bending slightly closer to the vials to take a look at them as he placed them back down.

“Now this,” he said, hefting the carved ship up, “This will need to be passed onto Abigail. I think it was meant to look like her son carved it. It seems that Washington wants to include her into the ring.”

“No, Abe,” Anna looked up in alarm, shaking her head. “I won't pass it on. She only has an agreement with me, and even that is at an end since I cannot guarantee her son's safety in Setauket.”

“I understand Anna,” he answered, placing the ship down. “I really do, but Abigail is the best placed out of us within the city. She's in the heart of British Intelligence – she can easily retrieve information and pass it along to us. She can take risks so that you don't have to.”

“No,” Anna continued to refuse before he saw her narrow her eyes slightly, asking, “What do you mean... 'take risks so that I don't have to'?”

Abe glanced down for a moment as he stepped away and placed his hands on his hips as he looked back up and said, “I overheard Hewlett talking to my father about his 'lovely evening meal meetings with a Major Andre'. You were mentioned as party to him and 'engaging in intelligent questioning about the the readiness of our troops should the rebels launch an attack after their victories at Brandywine and Saratoga'.” He paused for a moment, as he sighed and dropped his hands to his side. “Anna... what are you doing?”

He saw her turn away slightly, thinning her lips in anger before turning back to face him. However, instead of an explanation that he hoped to receive, she stated, “I should ask the same of you, Abe. Robert Townsend told me that he asked you to help with his investigation into some empty wells and that he's seen you disappear into one, only to emerge hours later with no sign of where you've been. The information you've brought back, supplemented by Robert and the others... they always sound too good to be true--”

“Stop,” he said, holding a hand up for a moment before running it over his head and face in frustration. “Just stop. Please.”

“Abraham,” Anna said, but fell silent as she sat down on the chair.

He stared at her, pity, sadness, frustration, mixing in with yearning and his love for her that had never fully died. Whatever they had in those few blissful months that he was willing to bed her and she thought her husband was dead, would never return... could never return. But now... “I know where Lucas Brewster and Reverend Tallmadge are being held,” he confessed.

“What?”

“I know where they are being held, and there are at least two others in the same area being held... being tortured. They're being held in some strange underground area... something to do with or is connected to the strangeness that happened in Setauket.” Anna opened her mouth to say something, but he shook his head and continued on, saying, “But that doesn't matter at the moment. What matters is, is that there is a person down there, a man referred only as 'The Director', and he or associates of his have already threatened my family. They've tied my hands, Anna.”

“So the information,” she said after a moment, her eyes wide in shock, “what we're passing onto Washington... they're not true?”

“They're true,” he said, trying to reassure her. “There's another man down there, who has been trying to smuggle information out... and he's also keeping our Setauket men and two others alive, to eventually break them free.”

“We don't care about the other two, Abe--”

“We should,” he interrupted her. “We really should. Remember back in Setauket... that man, Ben's future counterpart, descendant... whatever he is?”

“Major Benjamin S. Tallmadge... the man who wanted to use my ale for explosives of sorts... and will owe quite a steep tab if he ever utilizes it,” Anna answered, nodding.

“This man down below, this ally of ours... has been trying to keep my descendant and your descendant alive,” he quietly said. “They were captured before this entire thing started to spiral out of hand. Abigail Woodhull and Andrew Strong. I'm going to find a way to free those two and the Reverend and Lucas too.”

He carefully watched her as she sat in silence, concern and worry etched upon her beautiful, fair face. He saw her wring her hands on her dress for a moment before she asked, “This man... this ally inside of this underground area... does he have a name?”

“Simcoe,” he stated, though he could not help but wince slightly.

“Simcoe?! Abe!”

“I know, I know,” he answered, holding up his hands in protest. “Descendant of the Simcoe we know. I sure as hell didn't trust him when I first met him, Anna, but in talking to him...”

“Abe, don't you remember what Ben's counterpart said in the cellar?!” she hissed. “That the future Simcoe has information that his General Washington needs? That Simcoe also captured your descendant and mine too!”

“And that's why I'm working with him, Anna, I'm trying to gain his trust, to allow me further access,” he argued. “I'm trying to free them, I'm trying to complete their mission, and I'm going to feed him false information about Washington and other troop movements and positioning. You don't need to do this, Anna! You don't need to ingratiate yourself to Hewlett or Andre--”

“Oh get off your high horse, Abraham Woodhull,” she said, abruptly standing up so fast that her chair toppled over. “I'll present the boat to Abigail, but I'm still doing what I'm doing. I'm going to verify your information to Washington, because as much danger you think I'm in, you're in equal danger. You're not going to do this alone, Abe.”

“Anna...” he protested.

“Then why did you ask me to find a cellar?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest, “Why are you pushing me away when it was I who helped you in Setauket? I do not need to be coddled, Abraham. The only way we can be sure that what we're sending to Washington is to make sure both of the information we collect are true. That way, he will have no reason to doubt our words.”

He opened his mouth once, twice, but no words were said as he realized how much of a point in truth she had over him. She was right – even with his attempt at becoming a double agent and trying to ensure that the future-Simcoe could trust him, there was no guarantee that what he sent to Washington would be true. Only a second, independent verification of information from another source, in collusion with what Townsend and his people also counted, would tell the tale.

“That being said,” Anna said after a moment, “I've also been invited by Major Hewlett to accompany him to Elizabethtown in a few days. This invitation comes from Major Andre. Though Hewlett has not said it outright, I believe that he may be meeting some important contacts.”

“Don't go, Anna,” he said, though he knew that his words were not going to be heeded. She was much too headstrong and set in her ways to listen to caution.

“You know I can't, Abe,” she answered. “The cause needs me for this.”

* * *

_Morristown_

 

There seemed to be an acute air of misery hanging around the camp as winter continued to settle around the region. Campfires burning brightly against the dark grey skies that threatened to either pour ice-cold rain or the beginnings of snow weighed down upon the residents of Morristown. Soldiers shuffled from tents to campfires, seeking warmth and respite from the cold, though it didn't escape Ben's notice as he guided his horse through the enormous camp that many of the soldiers had their woolen blankets wrapped around themselves and were wearing ill-fitting boots with no stockings and clothes.

The clothes from his own disguise that he had worn to meet up with Abe had been drawn from his own personal funds, and he knew that once he returned into his uniform, those would be sold off to some merchant to replenish his funds or would be reappropriated for Intelligence purposes. Even Samantha's beautiful blue silk gown had been sold off earlier in the month to pour money towards the secret services. Congress was not funding them at all, and everything that they brought, sold, or bribed came from not only his own personal account, but also from Sackett's account. Caleb contributed whatever he could, but had implied to them that most of his own personal funds were for the acquisition of certain items on the unstated black market.

Despite their victories, supply lines were seldom consistent, and traders rarely traveled during the winter. But there was only so much Ben could worry about and knew that it was not his place to mention to his commander about the troops within the camp. However, before he arrived at the house, he saw Billy Lee, Washington's manservant run up to him.

He tugged on the rein to stop his horse, just as the young man said, “I'm sorry to bring you this news, sir, but General Washington is currently engaged in other matters and will not be seeing you. However, General Arnold has been asking for you.”

He nodded, mainly to hide his disappointment in the silence and lack of acknowledgment that Washington still treated him with. “Thank you, Billy,” he said. “Please let him know that my task with Culper was completed.”

“I will, sir,” the young man answered before hurrying off.

Ben sighed as he guided his horse towards the stables and as stable hands ran out with his approach, he swung himself off the horse and handed the reins to them. He then headed towards his own tent and as soon as he had taken a candle to the nearest campfire and brought it back to his tent, he began shedding his disguise. A few moments later, he felt like a proper soldier again with his pistol secured at his side, along with his sabre in the other, and his jacket fitting snug around his shoulders and body.

Though he was tired and hungry from his journey back, he dared not keep Arnold waiting any longer and stepped out. Passing by several campfires and tents, he made his way towards the surgeon's tent, only to be directed towards an area within the camp where Arnold was resting and recovering from his wound. It was both surprising and telling to him, that Arnold had forgone recovery in the warmth of the house – any other general of Arnold's stature had the right to expel officers of lower rank, even in generalship, who boarded at the house to allow a more peaceful and undisturbed recovery.

He found himself admiring the courage and the simplicity of Arnold's humility in the face of such adversity and thought it made him much more personable than say General Lee. At the thought of Lee, Ben's thoughts took a dark turn, but he quickly schooled his expression to a more neutral, polite look as he entered Arnold's tent. He immediately saw that the man's wounded leg was still in the wooden brace but there was a very faint but distinct smell coming from that area – a rotten smell. However, it seemed that the general looked much better than the first time Ben had seen him, with more color to his face than the pale, gaunt look he had seen.

“You wished to see me sir?” he politely asked, waiting next to the entrance.

Arnold looked up, and Ben saw contempt written all over the man's face as the general suddenly sneered, “I _wished_? No, I _summoned_ you! Three bloody days ago!”

Ben gaped for a moment, realizing just what he had done with his disappearance from Morristown and quickly said, “My-my apologies sir.”

“Where the bloody hell have you been, Tallmadge?!” Arnold angrily asked.

“I've been on special assignment for General Washington, sir,” he said, hoping that Arnold would not press further.

His hopes were dashed as he saw Arnold give him a doubtful look before demanding, “What assignment? Does it have to do with these strangers from the _future_?!”

“I'm...afraid I cannot say, sir,” he answered, as he saw disappointment flash across the general's expression.

He saw Arnold thin his lips as silence fell in the tent, though after a moment, in a less raised, but still equally cold and angry tone, he heard the man say, “I thought I could trust you, Major. I need a new aide-de-camp and I was going to offer the post--”

Shame flooded Ben as he realized that he had completely botched a chance to ingratiate and befriend Arnold, to learn more about him and to hopefully prevent his betrayal in the future. Jumping in and hoping to salvage what he could, he took a step forward and eagerly said, “You can—you can trust me, sir!”

“Come here!” Arnold ordered, and even though he was surprised, he obeyed and stepped up to the side of the bed. He nearly yelped in both surprise and pain as Arnold clamped his left hand down on the back of his neck, digging Ben's jacket's collar into his skin. “Help me up,” Arnold grunted.

He stayed where he was and as Arnold seemingly poured most of his weight into his grip on him, stilling himself at just how uncomfortable he was. The only gesture he made was to lean forward slightly, unsure if any other overt attempts would offend the already bristly nature of the man. “We need to show Washington that I can still fight,” Arnold huffed out, as Ben briefly glanced down as he felt a vice-like grip latch onto his arm – Arnold's right hand was wrapped so tightly around his left arm that Ben could see his knuckles turning white. “That I can still win... that I can fight!”

At that last determined word, Arnold finally stood up from the sickbed and though Ben could tell that the man was at least a half-head taller than he was, it was not so at the moment. Intense pain from the wounded leg caused Arnold to hunch over slightly so that they were standing forehead-to-forehead. Still, Ben did not move and remained where he was, it was Arnold's next words, breathed in a near whisper that gave him hope that perhaps there was still a chance to save the man. “I...said some words to him. Words that I should not have said,” Arnold confessed.

“Sir,” he protested, determined to keep the acute pain from his neck and shoulders and left arm from coloring his tone as he saw Arnold wobble on unsteady feet. “He speaks very highly of you. He knows that you are his friend.”

His words apparently had an even larger affect on the general as he saw a shrewd look pass before Arnold's expression. “Does he really know his friends? His enemies? Gates, Conway...does he know that this camp is full of Judases and Machiavellis?”

“I do know, sir,” he answered, trying to reassure him without informing him that he had tried to tell Washington but that Washington had all but brushed off his warning...especially about Lee. “Believe me, I do.”

The excruciatingly painful grip along the back of his neck and shoulders was suddenly gone and despite himself, Ben took a half-step back but continued to be within arm's length of Arnold. “Hmm, you're a sharp one,” he heard Arnold murmur before the man's left hand patted his right cheek. “A Yale man.”

“Yes,” he said, unsure as to what exactly the general was implying.

Arnold's left hand moved to his shoulder again, seemingly absent in patting before the man tried to steady himself again, though this time, Arnold's grip on Ben's neck and shoulders was a little less intense. “I was supposed to attend there,” Arnold said, still breathing laboriously, “before my father drank my tuition and I was apprenticed to a druggist. My education was amongst the sick and the weak. It was there that I learned to hate the smell of weakness... the same wretched stench that I smell from my useless leg!”

That self-loathing lament was the final straw for Arnold's tirade and his strength as he suddenly buckled and fell back down into the sickbed. Locked within the death grip, Ben could only do so much to alleviate the fall and managed to kneel down so that the general's tumble was not entirely ungraceful. “It's all right,” he said, trying to reassure the man that it was only a momentary show of weakness, that it was going to be all right. “It's all right...”

Arnold nodded, acknowledging his words, which sent a brief feeling of relief through Ben. The general was certainly much more open about accepting weakness on his own part, and it made him glad... if only Washington would do the same... As if reading his thoughts, Arnold spoke up, pain evident in the tone of his voice, but his timbre still strong as ever, saying, “You know, Washington has a weakness too. His belief that Providence will shield him from all harm. There will come a time when he sees that he is all too mortal. And it is up to us to protect him...but I cannot do it from this tent. I cannot do it alone.”

“Tell me what you need,” he said, fearlessly meeting Arnold's eyes with his own determined ones. While he may have stumbled and potentially ruined his chances to become Arnold's aide-de-camp, perhaps their mutual goal of protecting Washington would allow a friendship to be started.

“Another foreigner and arrived early this morning to camp,” Arnold said. “A Baron Friedrich Wilhelm von Stuben of Prussia. While there will most likely be yet another officers' dinner this very night to welcome the man, in my state, I cannot be present to advise our general in the cause of too much foreign intervention. They always ask too high of rank and money – they drain our resources and seek to undermine our goal of freedom by enslaving us to their country's debt. I'm sure, however, that at least other commanders will be there, especially Lee and Gates. You were there at that previous officers' dinner and therefore will most likely be invited again. I need you to listen in on the vipers' nest and let me know what they think of Washington's stance on these foreigners.”

“I will sir,” he said, nodding as he got up from the ground, feeling his knees crack slightly as he straightened himself. “Will there be anything else?” he asked sensing that perhaps the general wanted to be left alone to recover what little strength he had that had been expended with that attempt to stand.

“No,” Arnold answered. “Just report back when you have news, Tallmadge.”

“Yes, sir,” he answered, as he took a step back and left. It was only when he was a few steps outside of the tent and making his way back to his own tent that he finally shook out his arm. It was tingling slightly and hurt when the sleeves of his shirt moved against the area where Arnold had wrapped his hand around it. Even without Arnold's grip on it anymore, he could still imagine just how painfully tight it had been. Still, he did not blame the general for such a gesture – any lesser man in that much pain was not able to do what Arnold had done and stand, even if only for a few moments.

He contemplated approaching the house again, but decided not to – it was better for him not to bother Washington with no news, and he was sure that in the days that he had been gone from the camp, there were many scouting reports that he needed to tend to. However, upon entering his tent, he saw that the stacks of letters that had been on his desk were utterly gone.

Panic welled up inside of him as he saw a lone leaflet remaining on the desk; there was something written upon it. Taking three large steps towards his desk, he snatched the piece up and quickly read through what was written: [ _Letters are at Q-branch. -N._ ]

Audibly sighing his relief, he folded up the letter and exited his tent and headed towards the barn. Entering a predetermined pattern of knocks on the door – agreed upon by all who knew of the barn's function – he waited a moment before entering, shaking out his still-tingling arm. Instead of Sackett sitting at the table that contained Jefferson's polygraph contraption, it was Natalie, and as he closed the door, she glanced up towards him for a moment before returning her attention to her task in hand.

Various contraptions were still scattered about the barn, along with many vials, including the ones that had been used to create the invisible ink that had been passed on to Abe. He saw the stacks of the reports that had been in his tent on the table she was working at, along with a smaller stack that had a more delicate and refined look and handwriting – she had also moved the personal correspondences from admirers in Philadelphia.

He shook his arm again just as she spoke up while continuing to make a copy of whatever report she was working on, saying, “Carrie is still in Elizabethtown. Caleb isn't back yet, and Nathaniel and Sam are supposed to return tonight.”

“Are you modifying reports?” he asked as he noticed that the polygraph had only one quill in it, and that though it was the right side of the dual-letter writing that was only being written, the left hand letter was already full of written materials.

“Yes,” she answered. “Once finished, the originals will be hidden safely away while these falsified reports will be left on your desk.”

“And the personal letters?”

She looked up, her expression completely unreadable as she said, “That's for you to decide. While personal correspondences usually do not contain any military value, they do contain personable values that some may find compromising-- are you all right? You're moving your left arm a little oddly.”

“I'm fine,” he said, shaking his head slightly and hoping that it would ward off her concern.

It did him little good, as she frowned and stood up, heading towards a corner of the barn to retrieve something. “Sit, Ben and let me take a look at that arm. Did something happen while you were meeting with Culper and your signal agent?”

He sat on the chair that was next to hers but did not remove his jacket as he saw her kneel down behind a few odds and ends and remove a metal box of sorts that had a rather enormous red cross on the cover. “No,” he answered as she carried the box over. He could only assume that it was a medical supply box of some sort, from her era as she set it on the table and opened it to reveal instruments and small wrapped assortments of items that he couldn't even begin to identify. He thought he saw some rolled bandages of cloth material, but even then he wasn't sure what it was that he was seeing inside the metal box.

“The meeting with Culper went well, though I do question his rather unusual methods in fertilizing soil. He will be passing information and instruction on to our signal agent, 355, and Culper Junior.”

“Well,” she said after a moment, sighing, “at least now I know where the Tallmadge stubbornness comes from. Sam is just as obstinate as you are when it comes to being injured, however minor and trying to brave it out.”

“And what about Major Tallmadge?” he hesitatingly asked. Never had either of them been in a more private space than now, and with the last few weeks still fresh in his mind, he found himself wrapped up in a conundrum in whether or not to continue whatever relationship he and Natalie had.

“What about him?” she answered in what he could only assume as a decidedly neutral tone as she sat down next to him.

“Samantha,” he began, but paused for a moment in uncertainty. “She...told me that you and he had... courted while attending college.”

“Yes, we did,” she said. “But my parents didn't approve of him.”

“But I thought...”

“When I disappeared during my third year of college, that also contributed to our relationship ending,” she answered, looking down at her lap for a moment, her hands knitted together. “My parents thought he had abducted me to elope, but my resurfacing at MI6 absolved him of their accusations. The damage was done though. Between those incidents, along with the outbreak of war, we just... drifted apart.”

“Oh,” he said and wished that there was something else that he could have said to fill the silence, but nothing came to mind.

“You're not a replacement, Ben,” she said after a moment of silence. “I never considered you to be one. You are your own self and there are many things about you that I find endearing.”

Though there were still some doubts lingering in his mind, most of it had been washed away by her words. Feeling slightly mischievous and teasing, he said, “Name one.”

“Oh you!” she laughed, shaking her head in slight exasperation. “All right, if you must: the way you approach things, both personal and professional is very refreshing. You're relentless, but it is not detrimental to the goals and causes that you support.”

“But I still need guidance from Mr. Sackett and you've given me some too,” he said, slightly confused.

“No,” she answered, shaking her head slightly. “I was talking about your admirable relentless need to protect your friends and your family. Nathaniel told me about your insistence to Washington about the need of an alias for Culper, and the fact that you of all people are willing to state hard truths to the face of your commander without fear.”

Ben found himself flushed with embarrassment, but that was quickly dashed as instead of deriving a modicum of pleasure from the gentle brush of her hand across his left cheek and down towards the back of his jacket's collar, he winced in pain. He didn't think Arnold's grip had caused him to bruise quite that badly. “What happened?” she demanded a moment later in a no-nonsense tone. “Ben, what happened?”

“It's nothing,” he insisted, but fell silent as he felt her tug the back of his cravat slightly down.

While slightly impropriety, that was the least of his worries as he heard her whisper in alarm, “Jesus... what did you do to yourself?! Did you fall off a horse again?”

Knowing that she was most likely not going to let the matter settle, he pulled away by standing up and said, “General Arnold needed some assistance in standing and I provided it.”

“It looks like he abused that assistance, Ben,” she said, standing up so that they were face-to-face. “Jacket off, please. My first aid kit might have something to help alleviate the pain.”

Sighing and seeing that she was just going to be as stubborn as he wanted to be, he relented and sat back down. Carefully shedding his jacket and placing it to the side, he loosened his cravat and folded the piece of cloth up. Folding and rolling back the left sleeve of his shirt with assistance from Natalie, he examined the rather purplish bruise on the upper part of his arm as she stepped away for a moment. It looked similar to a hand print, but he didn't realize the extent of the damage that Arnold had unknowingly inflicted.

“Killing a bear with his bare hands,” he murmured as Natalie returned and placed something rather cold on the bruise and held it there for a few minutes before Ben could neither feel the tingling sensation or that part of his arm anymore.

A white-clothed bandage was quickly wrapped rather tightly around the bruise and to his shoulder as she said, “I'm compressing it and allowing the topical medication to do its work for the night. While I think that its safe to use in this era, if you start to have any unusual symptoms such as trouble breathing or itchiness, let me know. I'm only going to add the topical medication to your neck--”

“Home sweet home!” Caleb's boisterous shout preceded his entrance into the barn as Ben felt Natalie immediately step away, just as he too pulled slightly away. Both of them looked up to see Caleb waltz in with an enormous grin underneath his bushy beard. Just as he stopped at the entrance and stared at them, Ben knew that he and Natalie had been made. Their secret was out now. “Erm... am I interrupting something?” he heard Caleb ask in the cheekiest of tones.

“You were supposed to have knocked in the predetermined pattern. Do close the door, Brewster,” Natalie said, folding her arms across her chest, looking quite annoyed. “And no, you're not interrupting anything.”

“Uh, yes, ma'am,” Caleb immediately answered in a surprisingly meek tone, shutting the barn door rather quietly. Baffled at just how fast of a change between cheeky and obedience had over taken Caleb, Ben glanced up but could see nothing in Natalie's demeanor that warranted such an action other than she was quite bothered. The only other time that he remembered Caleb being that cowed by Natalie was the first time she had been instructing him on more advanced encryption.

“So, I got it,” Caleb said after a moment, unsligning the sack that he had been carrying across his chest and placed it on the table of vials and other oddities. As his friend undressed the object and revealed the content, he felt a rather cold thing being placed on a lower area at the back of his neck and saw that Natalie had resumed tending to his injury. A few moments later, the collar of his shirt was moved up again and she briefly stepped in front of his vision before moving to the side, her work complete.

Carefully rolling his left sleeve back down as she cleaned up her station, he stood up, took his cravat, and and murmured his thanks to her before heading over to see what Caleb had brought back from Ridgefield. As he readjusted his shirt collar and tied the cravat, he wondered what was inside the tiny replica of Michelangelo's David. Picking it up, he noted that it was heavier than it looked.

“Lady packed it with other stuff inside to keep whatever we or rather Sackett needs, from being shattered,” Caleb said. “Didn't even tell me her name. Just handed me this and told me to skedaddle. Couldn't even identify her since she kept her house dark as a cave.”

“She did it to protect herself and you,” Natalie spoke up, coming over to where they were. “With Ridgefield burning, anyone seen supporting Patriots or even couriers such as yourself can be caught and lynched by the mob.”

“Well, I couldn't just leave her there without any protection, so I left her that double-barreled pistol with the spring-loaded bayonet. Oh, and that reminds me, Simcoe's got one of those robotic horses and armaments like the 2nd Legionnaires. He's also commanding at least fourteen other men who are armed in the same manner.”

“Well, that explains how they took Ridgefield so easily,” Natalie murmured.

“And... they tangled with the Sheridan Rangers. From what I saw, they're mixed with flintlocks like ours, and those fancy rifles. But, I also ran into Benji-boy and Rogers. Surprised that your descendant hasn't strangled Rogers yet, Ben.”

“I can only wish,” he muttered before placing the statuette back down. “What's the importance of this thing?” he asked. “More invisible ink?”

“It contains a truth serum,” Natalie answered. “It's taken our Ridgefield contact since the late winter to develop a working formula. Now, if there are any defectors who enter the camp, we can verify their story with a few drops of this formula.”

“Sounds a bit far-fetched,” Caleb said, looking slightly doubtful. “I mean, there are liars everywhere, but there are those who are really good liars...especially those who play cards in the taverns.”

Ben could not help but smile slightly as he saw her sighed in exasperation, saying, “No, you cannot use it on your next outing, Brewster. It works because its the same formula we used at MI6 for suspected terrorist interrogation purposes. When given in the appropriate dosage, it lasts about twelve hours, but it is easy to overdose a person on it since its dependent on height and weight for dosage purposes. If overdosed, it can kill the subject within three hours. There is no antidote.”

“Christ,” Caleb said quite soberly as Ben's initial smile had turned into a frown as he was reminded just how far espionage and counter-espionage had grown in her time.

“It's more humane than torture,” she said. Fortunately, she was spared from any further explanation as a series of knocks on the door was heard.

As he glanced over towards Natalie who was discreetly placing the statuette back into the sack, he stepped forward to cover her actions just as the door to the barn opened. Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Hamilton stepped in before closing the door behind him. “Sorry to interrupt your work, Major Tallmadge,” Hamilton said. “But there is an officers' dinner tonight and General Washington requests your presence.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” he said.

“And he also requests the presence of Miss Sackett for translation purposes. It seems that our new guest, Baron Friedrich Wilhelm von Stuben, does not speak English and only understands French,” Hamilton explained.

“Ah,” Natalie genially said, stepping out and forward. “I presume that our French Intelligence officer does not wish to continue to play translator to the Prussian officer who was belligerent towards his country during the Seven Years War?” Before Hamilton could answer, she held up a hand and continued to say, “Please inform General Washington that I will do my utmost to prevent either of them from starting a war of their own at the table.”

Hamilton looked quite relieved as he bowed slightly towards them, saying, “Thank you.”

As soon as Hamilton left and the barn door was shuttered tightly, Natalie dropped the pleasant expression, saying, “This is _not_ what I signed up for.”

“So this Baron fellow,” Caleb asked, as he pulled the statuette out again and gently knocked on it with a fist. “Important guy?”

“Oh yes,” Natalie answered. “Very important. He's a little early...wasn't supposed to show up until early 1778, but we're not in Valley Forge and he's here, so I'm not complaining. If history is still serving us right, he's going to turn this army into a hell of a fighting force.”

“But that's if he can get along and not kill Frenchie first, eh?”

“Yeah,” she said, sighing. “It's going to be a long night...”

~~~

_Later that night..._

 

Ben considered it a miracle that the dinner was quite pleasant considering the demeanor that Natalie had displayed before she had returned to the house to get herself ready. Polite conversation floated in the air, but from where he was seated, which was near Lee, Gates, and a few other generals, the more personal conversations between the men were not pleasant at all. With the evening meal done, and without an outbreak of war between von Stuben and de Francy due to no small part of Natalie politely engaging each man in conversations that directed their attention towards Washington and the rest of the table, he was now headed towards Arnold's tent with information.

Whether it was pride, admiration, love, or some combination thereof from watching Natalie masterfully deflect any belligerence between the two foreigners, that kept his heart from feeling the full effects of the less pleasant conversations he had heard whispered, he let it fill him. It kept him buoyed in what Arnold had most appropriately termed 'the vipers' nest'.

Entering Arnold's tent, he was surprised to see that the general was up, though it did not escape his notice that Arnold had fashioned a brace out of leathers and belts and it helped hold his injured leg quite steadily. The man's sword was being used as a cane, and in his right hand, he held a letter, though Ben could make out that the script written on it was beautiful and delicate.

“Impressed?” Arnold asked.

Ben smiled, glad to see that the general was in a much more pleasant and better mood than he had been a few hours ago. “Very much so, sir.”

“Wait 'till you hear this,” the general said, waving the letter slightly before reading from the letter. “It has been several years since last we met, yet I recall your gentlemanly mien and abounding vigor. And pray that you are rapidly returned to your former health.” Arnold lowered the letter and asked, “Guess who it's from?”

“No idea,” he answered, though the cadence of the word order sounded slightly familiar to him.

“Miss Peggy Shippen of Philadelphia,” Arnold excitedly said. “Oh she's very rich, and its remarkable to receive more goodwill from civilians than from one's own colleagues. Speaking of, what news from the vipers' nest?”

How Ben managed not to gape and stutter his next words was beyond him. The mere fact that General Arnold received a letter from Shippen worried him. While he was not jealous of the fact that Shippen was writing to Arnold, it was the fact that despite all that he had written since meeting the young woman at the Governor-General's ball, he had not held the woman's attention. Was he failing in trying to keep Arnold from betraying them in the future?

“Um,” he managed to say before pushing his thoughts about Shippen to the side for later contemplation. “Well, it's just as you suspected. Lee and Gates fear to denigrate to Washington's face, but they exchange looks behind his back.”

“Cowards,” Arnold spat out. “They hide in the shadows, just like in the field.”

“They are not, however, afraid to denigrate you, sir,” Ben carefully said, knowing that even though both he and the man were on equal terms for protecting Washington, Arnold needed to know what else was being said...especially about his character.

“Oh,” the general said, surprised. “What did they say?”

He glanced down for a moment, contemplating his words and decided to tell the truth, hoping that by hearing it, Arnold would continue to stay his course and not end up doing what had been said between the generals at the table during the meal. Looking back up, he said, “They say that if obliged to choose between gold and this country, you would select the former. They say that you lack even a minimal sense of honor.”

“And...was Washington present when these things were said?” Arnold quietly asked after a few moments of silence.

“Yes, sir, he was,” Ben answered, unable to look directly into the general's eyes. The topic of Arnold had come up when Washington had taken the time to introduce each officer present at the table in between courses. The disparagement of Arnold by his fellow officers had been the only negative thing said at the table the entire evening. Despite wanting to defend Arnold, Ben had caught Natalie's eyes and her subtle shake of her head for him to keep his mouth shut. He had obeyed, knowing that the last time he had openly said anything ill of a general, even if it had only been in front of Washington, the consequences had been dire. He could not continue to risk his career or his position in trying to openly defend Arnold.

“And what was his contribution?”

Ben could feel Arnold's stare boring into him, making him uncomfortable as he haltingly answered, “He neither spoke in your defense nor spoke against you. He said nothing.”

Silence filled the air between them for a few long minutes before Ben heard the shuffle and _clink_ of Arnold's sword being moved. Looking back up, he saw the general limp back towards the sickbed. Taking a few more steps in, he tried to help him, but was roughly brushed off. Stepping back, he remained silent as he saw Arnold sit down on the bed and angrily toss the letter to the side.

After a few more moments, he asked, “Sir, has the position of your aide-de-camp been filled? If not, I wish to apply for the post.”

“And what of your special assignment for Washington?” Arnold asked, giving him an intensely inquisitive stare.

“I can fulfill both duties, sir,” he confidently answered, though he shoved the tiny voice that told him that his current running of the combined spy ring was already taking up most of his time. However, he was desperate to keep the venerable general from becoming a traitor to the cause. “Neither will detract from the other.”

“Really?” the general asked, tone completely dripping with contempt. “And what is this secret detail you cannot possibly relinquish?”

“Intelligence, sir,” he said after a moment, hoping that he had not completely lost his chance to befriend the man. “Acquisition and translation.”

“Intelligence?” Arnold coldly stated, and Ben knew then that he had botched it – he had ruined his chance. “Tell me, Tallmadge, where's the personal honor in that? What I mean to say is that you're a man of blood! Not some desk-bound clerk! You can be a spy or you can be a soldier, but you cannot be both. If you wish to serve my side, you must give that up.”

Whether it was just because of the discussion he had with Natalie and her mention of a stubborn streak within what he could only presume as a family trait that would be present in future generations, or just because he cared a little too much, he said, “I can't give that up, sir. With all due respect, you witnessed what happened at Saratoga. You've seen what the enemy is capable of.”

“Yes, yes I have,” Arnold answered, narrowing his eyes slightly, “and I still barely believe it. What devilry has summoned such forces?”

“A force called Britannia... four hundred years into our future,” he stated, though he dared not say anymore since it was still not too common of knowledge as to where and what exactly they were fighting against. “Because of the circumstances, I cannot give that position up. But, I can still serve as your aide-de-camp.”

“You were already missing for several days when I summoned you, Tallmadge,” Arnold answered. “Tell me, how does your periodic absence from the camp on Washington's secret assignments help your position as my aide-de-camp?”

Ben remained silent for he could not even answer the question without making himself sound like a fool. He wished that he could tell the general about what was to happen in the future, about Peggy Shippen, but he dared not to. What ever actions and words he said to Arnold had to be carefully measured and weighed. He could not salvage the friendship he wanted to start with the general, just as he could never give up his position as Head of Intelligence.

“Dismissed, Tallmadge,” Arnold brusquely said in the silence.

Silently nodding, he took a step back and emerged into the cold night. Glancing back towards Arnold's tent, if he could not become the man's aide-de-camp, then perhaps he could still consider other avenues to prevent him from turning. The investigation into the Shippen letter could be for one, but he would have to do it discreetly, for if Arnold knew that Shippen was writing to him too, then that would cause an irreparable rift in whatever relationship they had cultivated thus far.

* * *

_A few days later in New York City..._

 

“Abraham.”

“Mary.”

“I'm frightened, Abraham.”

Abe rolled over from where he had been lying on his side until he faced her. It was not her words that had caused him to do that, but the tone behind it. In the inky darkness of their bedroom, he could see her wide eyes staring at him, but there was something in her eyes that worried him. “We'll be home soon,” he answered, keeping his voice as soft was possible to not wake Thomas while trying to reassure her.

“How do you do it?” she asked after a moment, whispering her words. “How do you keep lying... how do you live with yourself... How could you, Abe? 711...”

He went still and almost contemplated turning away and pretending to fall asleep to brush away her accusation, but he did not. He knew for a while that she knew of his secret, and yet, each day they had woken up, proceeded through life in the usual manner, and gone to sleep without confronting each other. But what had changed? “Why now, Mary?” he whispered. “Why, of all this time that you knew... why now?”

“You've known?” she asked, nearly raising her voice before falling silent. “How?”

“I should ask you that first,” he answered, moving slightly closer to her. He mentally sighed in relief as she did not pull away or turned so that her back faced him in their bed.

“I found your codebook,” she whispered. “I found it the night before Tal-- sorry, 721 attacked the town.”

“I didn't know he was coming. He didn't tell me,” he protested, trying to keep his own voice from rising above a whisper. “And yet you sat on that knowledge... that precious knowledge that British forces would have loved to get their hands on. You never told anyone else, not even me... why?”

“Because I was afraid, Abe,” she answered. “Because I didn't know what to do. Because I didn't want to believe that my husband was not only an adulterer, but also a traitor.”

“Well,” he said, rolling back onto his back as he stared up at the dark ceiling before turning his head towards her. “Here we are. Here I am. Now what?”

“Are you still sleeping with her?” she venomously accused. “Is she part of your cabal?”

“Christ, no I'm not sleeping with Anna anymore,” he answered, turning to look back up at the ceiling. “You going to tell her too? That you know?”

“Unless her actions threaten your father, Thomas, and I, no,” she said, as he felt the bed shift slightly as she too rolled onto her back.

“I'm going to keep doing this,” he softly declared. “I can't stop. 711 needs me.”

“I know,” she answered after a moment of silence. “And Thomas and I are not leaving. You may be a traitor, but I believe in _you_. Not in the Patriots, and certainly not 711 and whatever rabble he has for an army, but in only you, Abraham.”

The silence that fell between them was uncomfortable, and after a few minutes, he shifted slightly again so that he was lying on his side, facing the prone body of his wife. There was a stricken look upon her face, but he could see no sign of tears rolling down her cheeks. “Mary,” he softly said, “I know where Lucas Brewster and Reverend Tallmadge are being held. Neither have anything to do with the war their relatives are fighting. Come spring, I'm going to try to free them.”

“Do what you have to do, Abraham,” she softly answered, turning so that her back now faced him. “I'm good at cleaning up messes.”

* * *

_Meanwhile, in Morristown..._

 

Ben pulled his cloak tighter against himself as a gust of the cold winter wind, blowing powdered snow from the bare branches around, tried to lift it. He pulled the barn door open and quickly entered before shutting it just as swiftly to keep what little heat existed in the barn. A copy of Peggy Shippen's letter to Arnold had been discreetly copied by him a couple of nights ago, and while he had been curious as to the full content of the letter, he would be remiss if he did not admit to himself that something about Shippen's letter to Arnold bothered him.

Raising the lantern burning a small amount of the whale oil that Caleb had given him for a 'small fee' that was in his hand, he placed it on the table that contained Jefferson's polygraph. Personal correspondence from the Philadelphia admirers, including Peggy Shippen's letters had remained here, for he still had not yet decided what to do with them. Unfortunately, because they were left out, Caleb had taken to reading the letters and had been teasing him about the contents of the letters until Ben had reminded his friend that they had Culper duties to maintain.

Now, with Caleb on his way to see if there were any new information dropped in the hollow, along with Samantha and Sackett on yet another trip down the Philadelphia – with Samantha stating that she had developed quite a rapport with a merchant named Austin Roe – Carrie still in Elizabethtown to maintain her cover, and Natalie still ensuring that a war between von Stuben and de Francy did not break out at the house, he would investigate his hunch about Shippen by himself.

“Benny-boy,” a hoarse whisper from the back of barn startled him that he nearly knocked the lantern over as he pulled out the copy of Shippen's letter.

“Who's there!” he said, taking the lantern and panned it around as he placed the letter on the table.

“Me, you idiot,” the same voice, female, stated. “Carrie!”

“What are you doing?” he asked, as he approached the back of the barn. “Why are you hiding?”

A moment later, he heard a rustle of fabric and oddities being moved around as she appeared from behind the cloth tarp that was covering the enormous thing that Sackett had not wanted any of them to touch. “I think I've been compromised, sir,” she quietly stated as he saw that she was still dressed in her tavern wench's disguise with her hair mused and quite messy.

“Compromised?” he questioned, gesturing for her to sit at the nearest chair. “What happened?”

“Are Natalie and the rest of the gang here?” she asked.

“Natalie is here, but Caleb is doing Culper retrieval, and Samantha and Sackett left for Philadelphia last night again,” he said.

“Can you please get Natalie, and get me my soldier disguise? It's in my tent,” she asked.

“I will,” he said, though after a moment, he asked, “Where is your tent?”

“Next to where that asshole, Bradford, used to pitch his. Loved listening to that pompous jerk talk about his accomplishments and that of Lee around the campfire... good fodder to sleep by and they didn't even I know I was there.”

“Bradford's not in camp anymore,” he pointed out.

“I know. Bastard got sent up to North Fairfield, Connecticut after he paid a visit to Elizabethtown. I got a fun story about that, but I really need Natalie here too. It's important, sir. Please.”

“All right,” he agreed, and left the lantern on the table next to her. “I'll be right back.”

Without another word, he quickly and quietly left the barn and headed towards the house. Giving a nod to the guards outside, he entered but did not remove his cloak. He saw Hamilton and caught the man's eyes for a moment before seeing the aide point towards another room where Washington was. Giving a nod of thanks, he headed towards the secondary drawing room, and found his general, along with de Francy, von Stuben, another aide, and Natalie standing around a table that featured the coasts of America and Europe bisected by the Atlantic.

“General Washington, sir,” he politely said, standing at the threshold of the room as soon as von Stuben had finished speaking.

“Major Tallmadge,” Washington greeted in a neutral tone, his expression unreadable. It had been the first time since that forged letter incident that Ben had stepped foot into the house in an official reporting capacity.

“May borrow Agent Sackett, sir? Her knowledge towards a particular problem we've recently encountered would be of great use and help.”

Judging from the irritated look that de Francy gave him, along with Washington's glance over towards the Frenchman before returning his attention to him, Ben thought that his commander was not going to allow Natalie to leave. However, he was pleasantly surprised as a faint smile appeared on Washington's face as he said, “You may, Major.”

“Thank you, sir,” he said as he saw Natalie immediately leave the table, giving him an immensely grateful look. He tried to keep his pace steady as they traveled down the hall and back to the foyer, stopping only for her to pick up her cloak and drape it over her shoulders. It was only after they exited the house and were in between the house and the beginning of camp that he stopped and said, “Brewster says that she's been compromised. She's at the barn. I'll be there shortly.”

She gave him a curt nod before hurrying towards the barn as he went into the camp towards where he last knew Bradford had pitched his tent. There was another occupant in the area, but to the side, was Brewster's tent. It looked untouched, and as he stepped in, he found out why. Gnarled roots and branches covered the ground where she had pitched her tent, making it highly uncomfortable to even set a cot down for sleep, much less any other items. In her absence, a few sacks of grain and oats had been stored within, but he carefully navigated his way around the sacks to find that she had stored her disguises and her original Army uniform within a crate marked [MANURE-DRIED].

Taking the soldier's disguise out and tucking it under an arm that was covered by his cloak, he carefully closed the crate again before making his way out. People around the campfire paid him little heed as he navigated his way through and back to the barn. Knocking the appropriate series of knocks upon the door, he waited a moment before entering. Closing the door, he noticed that it was a bit brighter within the barn, with a few candles lit since he had departed. Sitting in the center of the barn was Brewster and she looked quite miserable and angry at the same time. Natalie sat next to her, still wearing her cloak, but had a quill and ink ready, along with a piece of parchment to take notes.

He placed the disguise on the table next to where the two women sat and removed his cloak, draping it over the chair he brought to the center of the room. “What happened?” he asked without preamble.

“Lee's woman and Bradford both became suspicious a few days ago,” Brewster said before shaking her head slightly. “I'll start at the beginning, since I'm not entirely sure how my identity got compromised. So remember when I told you the last time that I overheard Bradford and Lee discussing that they were to potentially meet with some more important people?”

“Yes,” he answered, nodding and remembering the detailed report that Brewster had presented to him after her first foray into Elizabethtown, disguised as a tavern wench. While not much for compromising information, Brewster had noted that Lee seemed more interested in spending time with his mistress, a woman by the name of Philomena, than discussing secret matters with Bradford. Surprisingly, Bradford had remained unattached throughout the night, and instead, had taken to observing patrons around the tavern.

“That meeting happened two days ago. And it not only included Lee and Bradford, but also Lee's woman, Philomena, along with Major John Andre, Major Edmund Hewlett, _and_ Anna Strong,” Brewster stated.

“Anna?!”

“I couldn't tell what her capacity for being there was, but I think she was there as a guest of Hewlett. Given Hewlett's disposition and posting out in Setauket, he may have been passing on intelligence to Andre since then and may still be working with Andre. That may be why he brought Anna along, as a cover of sorts... or maybe he just likes her a lot. I think Lee's woman may be Andre's agent or in collusion with Andre... she was pretty handsy with both Andre and Lee. Anyways, they rented a private room on the second floor, but I was not able to eavesdrop on the entire discussion,” she explained.

“Unfortunately, most of this is conjecture,” Natalie spoke up, “unless we can get a report from Mrs. Strong. If my impression of Anna is right, and she hasn't already taken advantage of her being in the same room as several ranked officials on both sides, I think she may be trying or will try to engage in a double-agent ploy.”

“She'll get discovered and killed, that's what'll happen,” Ben groaned, as he felt a headache start to bloom. “Dammit, and Caleb is already on his way to the dead drop. I need to stop her from making a grave mistake.”

“It's her choice, Ben,” Natalie said. “She's may have started out as a signal agent, but everyone has to adapt to the ever-changing circumstances. She has, and she's, like 355, are very well poised to give us information. I know you're worried about her, but all we can do from this side is to guide her and the others in the city.”

“It's madness, that's what it is,” he muttered, knowing that he had no one but himself to blame for enlisting Anna into the ring. He just hoped that Selah never found out, otherwise he would have more than just this mess on his hands to deal with.

“What of this Philomena?” Natalie asked.

“Don't know too much about her other than she's really gorgeous. I can see why Lee is so taken with her,” Brewster said. “Hell, if I hadn't been occupied with trying to find more evidence against Lee, I would have bedded her myself. Girl's got the voice and moves that would make any man or woman wild. She's definitely got Lee wrapped around her finger, and if she is Andre's agent, then...”

“How did you get compromised, Brewster?” Ben asked, pushing aside his frustration at what Anna was trying to do. He thought Abe had been reckless in his lack of awareness in his surroundings at the dead drop, but Anna... she was going beyond reckless at this point.

“Philomena,” Brewster stated in a short tone. “She made me. I was bringing refills of their drinks and tried to listen in through the closed door. Fortunately, I heard her approach and managed to get down the hall before the door opened. Unfortunately, after that, every time some poor sod walking around or any person bringing refills to other patrons on the floor caused her to open the door. She even plucked the refills out of my hands and brought them inside the next time I came around. Then I got a face full of Bradford trying to stare me down as their meeting ended and they were leaving. Good riddance on that bastard getting sent to North Fairfield after that. Benji sent me a letter before this debacle stating that he and a platoon, along with Rogers's Rangers were headed towards North Fairfield under Washington's orders to rendezvous with Bradford's unit for a large Connecticut patrol.” Brewster gave a bitter bark of laughter, saying, “Bet Bradford didn't know that. Karma is a bitch.”

Despite himself, Ben faintly smiled at the thought of Bradford being quite surprised at just who else was in North Fairfield, but it was short-lived as he schooled his thoughts back to the matter at hand. “Lee's back in camp, so given what happened, he probably knows your face. Do you want to transfer back to Setauket, Lieutenant?”

“Hell no,” Brewster said, shaking her head rather vigorously. “The bastard needs to be kept an eye on, especially where he's coming and going from. I'm volunteering to stay at camp, but I can't be in this particular disguise anymore. Can't go back to Elizabethtown either.”

Ben glanced over at Natalie who had placed her quill down and tapped her chin before saying, “We could cut your hair... and... well, it might be hard to convince Washington or von Stuben to let you train the troops--”

“Baron von Stuben is here?!”

He winced at just how high-pitched Brewster's voice had become and found himself slightly baffled in just how quickly her demeanor had changed. “Yes,” he answered as he heard and saw Natalie sigh while shaking her head in utter exasperation.

“He's offered to help train the troops, just like what he did at Valley Forge... history is still on track for him,” Natalie said after a moment.

“I'll make the disguise work,” Brewster immediately said. “I'll convince Washington and von Stuben that I can greatly assist in training the troops. I'll even shave my head if needed.”

“Carrie... he doesn't speak or write in English,” Natalie said.

“Who cares! It's _von Stuben_!”

“All right,” he interrupted, holding a hand up. “Enough. You'll continue to stay, Lieutenant, but only in the capacity that does not lead Lee to suspect you. We'll find a time to present you and the idea of training some of the army in your type of warfare. In the interim, you will be confined to the barn, for your own safety.”

“Eh, not a bad place to be--”

“Don't you dare touch anything, Carrie,” Natalie immediately warned. “Nathaniel and I are performing multiple experiments and creating things. We don't need you or Caleb to mess anything up even further.”

“Fine, fine,” she answered, holding her hands up in surrender. “Sheesh...”

“Also, Ben,” Natalie said, as he got up and took his cloak with him. He would be the one to break the news about Brewster's potential compromise as an agent to Washington. It would be his responsibility and he would have no other person to take the blame for it.

“Yes?” he said, pausing as he swung his cloak back around his shoulders and hooked the clasp together.

“I noticed that you have a copy of a personal letter to Arnold there,” she said, pointing to where he had left the letter next to the stack of personal correspondences. “Is it truly from Peggy Shippen?”

“Yes,” he answered. “I have some suspicions and was going to compare it to the letters she wrote me.”

“Hmm, the Jewel of Philadelphia writing to Arnold... not making a good enough impression on her, Benny-boy,” Brewster quipped, grinning.

Ignoring the comment, he walked over and retrieved Arnold's letter along with the ones that Shippen had sent him. Knowing that it was because of Natalie that he wrote back to Shippen, she would have a vested interest in Arnold's letter, and brought the correspondences over to her. He watched as she frowned while reading Arnold's letter before silently placing each letter on the table, one after the other in correspondence date order.

In the silence that stretched, even Brewster had gotten up and peered over Natalie's shoulder, only to take a step back when Natalie suddenly cursed, saying, “Shit. I should have seen this long ago. It should have been obvious, but then who...”

“Oy, Nat, you're not making sense here,” Brewster jumped in before Ben could.

“These letters,” Natalie began, gesturing to the pieces, “we're so ingrained with the knowledge and the routine cryptography of our day and age that we automatically assume that any type of correspondence or report requires a pseudo-AI to decrypt it. But here, and now... the simplicity of it... I should have seen it. It's just a matter of putting the letters in order and reading them across every other line to get the entire hidden message.”

“What?” he asked, glancing down at the first letter. As he silently read through the first line from each letter, stringing the sentence that was formed together, an uneasy feeling bloom inside of him.

“I don't know exactly who the message was intended for, but these entire correspondences strung together was meant for someone in this camp,” she explained. “But who...”

“Are you sure, Natalie?” he asked. “Are you sure that these were meant to be strung together?”

“Yes... because in our day and age, counter-intelligence was always trying to find out information from the other side. We became dependent on pseudo-AIs to help us in that endeavor. The simplest way of sending an encrypted message is this way and many of us, including me, overlooked it because it wasn't 'complex enough to fool the other side'. We forgot the most basic tenants of encryption. Hiding in plain sight. There were only two people who rarely employed those tenants to throw enemy agents off... MI6 Director Andre and MI6 Deputy Director Simcoe.”

Ben was silent for a few moments as he contemplated the consequences of what had just been said. “Then... if Miss Shippen is sending these letters...”

“Either men are most likely in Philadelphia manipulating Miss Shippen... and may be in the midst of vetting our forces in the city. Or worse, compromising whatever agents we're trying to cultivate there, including Nathaniel and Samantha.”

* * *

_At an unknown location in the northern outskirts of New York City..._

 

As he walked around the area for the third time that night, he was sure that no one had followed him to the area, but just to be sure, he waited until the sliver of the moon had set. He was so cold, so stiff from crouching at the base of a rather large brush and pile of leaves that he could feel his joints creak and crack as he slowly stood up. Still, this was no worse for Robert Townsend than another night's foraging in the city. It was only the fact that the winter silence accompanied him in a much more pressing manner than the city's rats and other critters.

It had been days since Woodhull had finally brought him into the fold of what he called the New York Spy Ring. When Anna had approached him earlier about finding a small place that she was able to store a few items in a cellar without anyone being the wiser, he had scouted out a particular area for her. To his surprise, she, along with Woodhull had transformed the cellar into a small hideout – a place where they told him that all the information they had been collecting thus far was being cataloged and sent to General Washington himself.

He had been brought into their confidence, had been introduced to their world of intelligence gathering for Washington, and he readily agreed to fully participate. Of course, he was the only one of those living in the alleyways who had their confidence and trust, and it pained him now to do what he was about to do. They trusted him to send information in a faster capacity than they could, since he knew how to slip in and out of the city without drawing too much attention. However, with the latest encrypted report from Woodhull in his hand, he was about to betray that trust.

Ever since Woodhull had returned from the well investigation and those two Setauket men had shown up dead on the streets, not to mention that Robert had seen some strange figure climb in and out of Woodhull's home that same day, he had discreetly followed the man everywhere. That had included a brief foray down into the well he had seen Woodhull disappear into one night – but that had yielded no results. Woodhull had seemingly disappeared while underground and all Robert had run into were earthen walls that showed no entrance. When Woodhull had surfaced, Robert had tried to question his disappearance in an oblique manner, providing him with west fortification numbers that his boys had found in hopes that it would draw out the location that the man had gone to. It didn't work.

Added to his worry and to the disquieting notion that perhaps the two people who trusted him may have been holding back information or worse yet, compromised but unable or unwilling to tell Washington, was that two of his boys had mentioned seeing Anna occasionally visiting a house of a British soldier. Some of those visits had been in the arms of Major Hewlett who was in command of the northern garrison – Robert and the others of the alleyway coterie had discovered that Hewlett held a deep affection for Mrs. Strong but never acted improperly on it. But there were a few times his boys had observed Anna approaching the alleyway of the British soldier's home, only to be allowed by a beautiful woman or the soldier's maidservant.

It was suspicious, but he didn't have proof of either Woodhull or Anna's complicity or compromise as spies for Washington. All he had was conjecture and observations. Still... as the two trusted him with their duties, he extended his own trust to them, but only so. Now, with Woodhull unable to come up with an excuse to his family or to the northern garrison to leave when winter was settling quite well in the region, and Anna having just returned from wherever she had gone with Hewlett for the past few days, it was up to him to pass the reports to the dead drop.

It was only after Woodhull had handed him the sealed report of the latest numbers that he had snuck back into the cellar to cast around for the newest instrument that Woodhull had returned with. A remarkable instrument, invisible ink, had been given to Woodhull and though he didn't know if Woodhull used it, it had become quite useful for him. He didn't want to cast doubts towards Washington, but he knew that he could not just sit on his suspicions for the rest of the winter. With the information that they were sending to him, Robert knew that Continental forces would soon move as soon as the winter thawed.

He shook his head slightly to clear his thoughts. Taking one last look around the area, he still did not hear sound other than his own breathing and the silence of the winter woods. Creeping forward, he sidled up the tree and reached into the hollow. There was a small tin deep within the hollow and as he took it out, he quickly snatched Woodhull's sealed letter and shoved it into the tin before placing it back within the hollow. Looking around again, there was no one else around, and he quickly slunk back into the woods. Moments later, when he was sure that he was truly alone, he started running back towards the city.

He knew that Woodhull and Anna would never forgive him for what he had done, but he needed to warn Washington that any information coming from either of the two were potentially compromised. He could not, in good conscious, allow Washington to risk so many men in a gamble to take New York City.

 

~*~*~*~


	10. The Philadelphia Experiment (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is a little different from all others so far... its slightly more serious than previously posted ones, but still hammy enough that even I'm gnawing on the scenery. However, we will return to your regularly scheduled programming of badassness and equally ridiculous humor in the next chapter.

**Chapter 10: The Philadelphia Experiment (Part 1)**

 

_Late 1775_

“Take him to New Hampshire to be disposed of as the government judges best.”

“You'll not die George! You'll live to regret it! You will live to regret it!”

Washington briefly closed his eyes for a few moments as the door to his office closed, with Robert Rogers's shouts still echoing in the halls as the guards dragged the man out. He could hear the footsteps of his manservant, William Lee, or 'Billy' as many had taken to calling him, walking around the office, rearranging the turned over chair and picking up the pieces of parchment that had flown off in Rogers's attempt to kill him. Opening his eyes, he stared at the closed door again before sitting back down and picked up his quill.

There was a creak of another door, adjacent to the office, and not a moment later, he heard a small 'hmph' issue from the person who had entered. Still, Washington did not look up from the report he had settled down to read again, and it was only after that a shadow of the person who had been clearly listening into his and Rogers's discussion sat in the formerly upturned chair that he finally looked up. “Nathaniel,” he greeted.

“George,” Nathaniel Sackett, a most curious of a man, answered in kind, nose twitching slightly as he pushed his spectacles up with his left hand.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Washington had seen Billy place a stack of papers on an adjacent desk before bow slightly towards him and took his leave, knowing that whenever Sackett was in the room, there were explicit instructions for no one to be present. Meetings and discussions to be had with Sackett always contained information that he did not want anyone else to be privy to, though there were some meetings on occasion that warranted a less serious talk and more about their personal lives.

“Thank you,” he quietly said, placing his quill back down and folded his hands together.

Sackett sniffed, and it was not because of arrogance that he did – Washington knew that the man was suffering from a cold of sorts and was re-acclimatizing to the conditions and weather here in the colonies. “While in London, I did manage to make an acquaintance of sorts through my wife's introductions.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding. “And might I ask where has your wife and children settled now?”

“Ridgefield, Connecticut,” Sackett answered. “Just outside of the town. She is contemplating opening an apothecary of sorts, but for now, her skills as a druggist are being put to use within the town and in helping cure whatever ails its residents.”

“Ah, that's wonderful to hear,” he answered, giving his friend a genuine smile. “And this acquaintance of yours in London?”

“This agent of mine, whom I shall call Pikadilly, is an artist specializing in sculpting. She produces very beautiful pieces of works and replicas... even gifted my wife and I with a perfect, proportional replica of Michelangelo's David. Given her propensity to produce such works, it is with hope that perhaps she may eventually be called upon to the court of the King himself.”

“What of others here?” he asked. “Granted you are just one man, Nathaniel, but a valuable one at that. I would hate to lose your knowledge and expertise in these matters. Might there be others whom you may be able to train for assignments such as the one you performed in following Major Rogers?”

“There may be one,” Sackett said. “A young Connecticut man, Nathan Hale currently of East Haddam. A Yale graduate, and schoolmaster with a propensity for causing some property damage while drunk to his alma mater during his studies. Most definitely Patriot, judging from a letter that was intercepted by me that was then delivered to said person. My wife was already planning a visit to where Mr. Hale is stationed, under the guise of bringing medicine and supplies to the men there. Shall I go too?”

“Please do so, Nathaniel,” he said, knowing that it was not his place, no matter how ill he felt about Sackett's wife participating in such a risky endeavor, to lecture his friend on. Were it not for Sackett's intelligence on Fort Duquesne during the end of the Seven Years War, then his unit, the Virginia Regiment, would have been ambushed and blown up when the French abandoned and destroyed the fort. He owed the man his life. “And let us see if this exercise in intelligence gathering can be brought to success.”

~~~

At the present, Washington could almost hear the contemptuous 'hmph' of Sackett's usual answer to everything echoing in his mind as he patiently listened to his Head of Intelligence's report. He agreed with the phantom noise of disdain, but only to a certain extent. For this time, not only was his Head of Intelligence bringing news of a threat that could certainly bring about the downfall of everything that the latest exercise in intelligence gathering was doing, his Head of Intelligence was flanked by two others he not normally allow in such a briefing. Well, one he would allow for it was not because of Sackett's sentiment and familial affection for the woman who stood to the left of his Head of Intelligence, but tradecraft skills that supplemented Sackett's own.

There was concern, fear, worry, anger, and determination in Major Benjamin Tallmadge's eyes, as silence fell in the office – Tallmadge had finished his briefing. But there was frustration too, lurking within Washington's Head of Intelligence's eyes... impatience as well, and those were two of the many things that he, Washington, had tried to temper and refine. But what was presented to him was also something he knew that he could not ignore, and even though there was the obvious question of whether or not the threat in Philadelphia was true, the stakes were much too high for him to dismiss the report.

“If these allegations are true,” he carefully began, “then why has Mr. Culper and other agents within New York not been compromised?”

“I-I don't know, sir.”

Washington reined in the words he wanted to say, knowing that he had already stated a variation of them before to his Head of Intelligence. There was no need to reiterate the expectation to Tallmadge over again – the evidence of what he expected his Head of Intelligence to do in duties was already staring at him, and still... Tallmadge was still blinded, still short-sighted, still too reactionary. But not completely.

The fact that young Natalie Sackett also took Tallmadge's side in this argument was telling. His observations of the young, intelligent, and highly capable woman working with her ancestor, along with de Francy and von Stuben had shown him that she had a very good grasp in absolute shrewdness. She, like her ancestor, were masters of this spy business and neither had qualms about how ungentlemanly or unorthodox the business was, and thus he took their words and advice on _certain_ matters seriously.

“Then let us move on to this proposal for the army,” he said after a moment. “While Baron von Stuben has graciously and generously offered to train the army, the approach for you, Lieutenant Brewster, to train certain elements of the army will not be accepted as well. I am of the mind that observations should be carried out as the Baron trains the soldiers, and when the men are more comfortable and confident, that is when we shall reconsider the proposal of training the men. For now, Lieutenant, I am assigning you as an observer of sorts to the Baron. We will also need another interception of those rifles in order to revisit the proposal.”

“I can do that, sir,” Brewster answered smartly. “However, in return for me writing a request to my Major Tallmadge for the weapons intercept, and training your men, you send these two to Philadelphia.”

For a moment, Washington was quite bemused, but that was quickly dashed away and replaced by anger, which he managed to keep from appearing on his face. Impudence was something that he did not tolerate, no matter who it was from, and the fact that a mere Lieutenant, even not of his army or his time was _bargaining_ with the lives of others in the war incensed him. It was also clear to him that both his Head of Intelligence and Agent Sackett had not anticipated Brewster's words. Both Tallmadge and Sackett had recoiled slightly and were gaping at Brewster.

But, he was not remiss to know that it took a lot of courage to say those words, to declare what she believed in doing the right thing. The war they were waging against England was a clear reflection of the will of the people and their courage. It was a bargain well-played and timed by Brewster, and he could hear Nathaniel Sackett's genuine laughter echo through his memories.

Lives were at stake, and he knew that while he could have ordered the future Major Tallmadge to send people to train a portion of the troops in conjunction with von Stuben's training, the burning of Ridgefield and rumors of Danbury also burning showed the futility in his orders. There was an _alliance_ between him and the future-people, and it was only because of a mutual integrated enemy within British forces that that alliance remained. The Continental Army needed the help, needed the arms and armament, needed the training, and needed the people – Washington needed to accept the help offered.

The sooner the future-people could be rid of, the better the future of the burgeoning country of America would be off of. And if that meant chasing down the fox into a hole and encountering a viper within the nest, then so be it. He did not think that Nathaniel Sackett or Agent Tallmadge were in danger, but he would allow this one last request to travel to Philadelphia from his Head of Intelligence before seriously considering the temporary dismissal of Major Tallmadge from his post.

Washington could not afford the loss of his Intelligence officer and agents, not with the clear and present danger he knew to be present within and outside of the camp. If there was to be a strike within the camp, as he understood both Nathaniel and Agent Sackett were anticipating, it would be in the winter. Tallmadge's report on Philadelphia was fraught with speculation and dangerous assumptions, but it was Brewster's bargain that gave him the excuse to send his most valuable officer away from an even more dangerous situation.

He wordlessly picked up his quill and dipped it in ink. Bringing a blank sheaf of parchment out, he began to pen the checkpoint pass that would send his Head of Intelligence and Agent Sackett into Philadelphia.

* * *

_Philadelphia, December 1777_

 

During Ben's first trip into the city, he thought that the strange smell that lingered in the air as if an afterthought was because of how the winds were carrying gunpowder and soot from the various skirmishes that General Greene and his garrisoned forces engaged in to deter what was left of the British army after Brandywine from attempting to harass traders. But now, with the chill of winter settling in, that smell still lingered, and it had been unmasked from the layer of sharp gunpowder scent as a more fouler smell. He couldn't identify what it was, except that it really did not smell pleasant at all and even with the bitterly cold winds blowing, it did nothing to carry it away.

“Interesting smell in the air,” he heard Natalie quietly quip from where she sat in her horse, riding next to him. Though he had seen the fear in her eyes as she had ridden the distance between Morristown and Philadelphia by horseback, she had been the one to refuse to take her donkey for the mission; citing that in order to better blend in and not possibly alert either Director Andre or Deputy Director Simcoe to her presence, she would take an actual horse.

“There was a more pleasant scent last I was here,” he answered as they approached the checkpoint.

She remained silent and though he wanted to glance over at her, to gauge her current thoughts, he refrained from doing so, though out of the corner of his eyes, he did see her affect a piqued interest in the fortifications that had been erected at the checkpoint. Still, he was not entirely sure if that interest was feigned or real, for their cover to enter the city was that he was under orders from General Washington to inspect troops at Philadelphia and receive any personal updates from General Greene about the conditions, supplies, and materials that were possibly lacking. Natalie was under the guise of being a Prussian Intelligence officer wanting to examine the readiness of the troops in Philadelphia.

Washington had not been entirely convinced of his argument that Sackett and Samantha were in danger, and it was all due to the logical fact that if Director Andre or Deputy Director Simcoe were in the Philadelphia, then why had the Culper Ring inside of New York City not been flushed out yet by messages that could be easily passed on from either men to British forces within New York. However, Washington did see the merit of allowing Brewster to train a few of the more amenable soldiers, however unconventional it was, in the futuristic ways of fighting. It was there that she drove the bargain to allow both him, Ben, and Natalie, to get to Philadelphia with a signed and sealed note from Washington himself.

Ben mentally winced again, trying to push the memory of Washington's rather inscrutable expression out of his mind. The last time his commander had adopted such an expression was before he had exploded in anger at Ben's misstep and handling of the Lee situation. Though his commander had not done such a thing when Brewster had requested the Philadelphia pass in exchange for her training the men, judging by the short and quick scratches of the quill against the parchment as the pass was written, Ben knew that Washington was quite incensed.

He pulled on the rein of his horse to halt it just as one of the checkpoint officers approached. Natalie had done the same with her own horse, though she was now carefully watching all the officers at the checkpoint, as if looking for something. Taking out the pass from his jacket's inner right pocket, he glanced over at her for a moment, catching the slight shake of her head in the negative, and could only assume that she had been trying to see if either the future Andre or Simcoe could be identified.

“Ah, sir,” the checkpoint officer said, extended a hand out for Ben to shake. As Ben leaned down slightly and shook the officer's hand, the man continued to say, “Lieutenant Creighton, sir. So what brings you and your companion to Philadelphia, Major?”

“It's Tallmadge, Lieutenant,” he answered, handing the pass over. “My companion here is--”

“Friederik von Anhalt-Zerbst-Dornburg, good sir,” Natalie answered in a heavily accented voice that was pitched as low as she could do so.

“Prussian officer, sir,” he supplied, at the furrowing of Creighton's brows. “We're here to conduct inspections and meet with General Greene.”

“Well, Major Tallmadge,” Creighton said after a moment of reading through the pass, eyes widening slightly as his eyes glanced over the signature and seal on the pass. “If you would allow me to take this to my commander for verification purposes, you shall be on your way shortly.”

“Please do,” he agreed, nodding slightly for he was pleased that the officer did not take the pass or his words at face value. The officer left and as Ben reseated himself on the saddle, he thought he saw, out of the corner of his eyes, Natalie's lips quirk up slightly in a smile. “Something the matter?” he asked.

“Just trying to put where I've seen that Lieutenant before...” she quietly answered. Ben focused his gaze on the retreating Lieutenant's back, with the officer trying to navigate through a rather large herd of sheep with no herder to tend to them that seemed to stretch to the checkpoint hut. “Ah, yes,” she said after a moment. “I remember a man named Creighton that looked similar to him. A member of ONI – Office of Naval Intelligence – and a highly decorated officer with the rank of Commander last I heard of him.”

“I thought the United States Navy was destroyed by Britannia?” he said.

“The Navy, the seafaring ships and submarines, yes,” she said, “but there were... are still elements, still officers alive. ONI is the naval equivalent of the Army Intelligence services; military also but focused on the sea more than land, though there are some overlap and exchange of information.”

“Ah,” he said as they both fell silent, seeing that the officer was emerging from the hut and heading back towards them, though Creighton did stop to tell one of the more junior checkpoint personnel to herd the sheep away.

“Everything's in order, sir,” Creighton said as soon as he stopped at the side of Ben's horse's nose, handing him back the pass. “Apologies on the wait.”

“No worries, Lieutenant,” he answered, accepting the pass and placed it back into his jacket's inner pocket. “Is General Greene still staying at Ben Franklin's residence?”

“Yes, sir, he is. Do you need an escort?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “Thank you for the offer though. Last I was here, it made quite an impression on me. I remember where it is.”

“Well, best of luck on your inspection, sirs,” Creighton answered, tipping his tricorn slightly towards both of them. “I hope we do General Washington proud.”

Ben kicked the side of his horse just as Natalie did to hers and minutes later, the checkpoint was behind them. As they traversed down the main road, with farmland slowly turning into buildings that stretched at least three stories tall, dotted by shorter stubbier ones, the crowds started to become thicker and thicker. While not quite dark yet, marketplaces were still open for last minute purchases, and despite the bitter cold, even children were still running around, throwing snowballs at each other.

Philadelphia looked incredibly lively, as if the ravages of war and the fact that there was a heavy military presence within the city, especially with the patrolling troops marching around, had no effect on its inhabitants. While winter nipped at the heels of those still out and about, Ben could not help but have his spirits lifted slightly as he took it all in.

It was dark by the time he and Natalie arrived at Greene's residence, and as the stable boys took hold of their horses, they dismounted. Removing his helmet and tucking it to the side, he gave his thanks to the boys and made his way up the steps. Knocking on the door, it was opened a moment later by a bespectacled man who merely gestured for both him and Natalie to enter without a word to either of them. Taking the invitation for its worth, they stepped in and the door closed behind them, enveloping them in the warmth of the house.

“A messenger was sent ahead of your arrival, Major Tallmadge,” the man said, taking both of their cloaks, Natalie's tricorn, Ben's helmet, and their gloves. The man handed the items off to another aide of sorts before saying, “Please, follow me. General Greene is in the main drawing room.”

Ben followed in the wake of the man, wondering as to why there was no reaction from the aide when Natalie had removed her tricorn. Without it, even with her hair done up in the style he had first met her in, a close inspection, especially at the distance that the aide was standing to her, would reveal her as a woman in men's clothing. He did not get a chance to receive his answer as they entered the main drawing room, a place filled with so many oddities and contraptions that made Sackett's barn look quite paltry.

“Sir,” the aide announced, “Major Tallmadge and his associate are here.”

“Thank you, Hattersfield,” Greene, standing by a window, said as he turned slightly. The aide scuttled away as Greene fully turned and gestured for them to take a seat in the room, saying, “Please, Major and... Mr. von Anhalt-Zerbst-Dornburg, have a seat.”

Ben obeyed and took a seat across from the one that Greene was sliding into, while Natalie took the one next to him, closer to the closed door than to the fire. As much as he wanted to offer his seat to her, not wanting her to catch a chill, he knew that he couldn't unless he wanted to break her cover. There was a chance that the aide in the hall did not notice that Natalie was masquerading as a man – Greene's address of her alias was certainty of that assurance.

After a servant brought in coffee and gave each a cup, Ben wrapped his hands around his cup, seeking warmth from the liquid and the cup that held it. He sipped a small amount of the bitter brew, just as Greene put his own cup down, and asked without preamble, “So you're the Head of Intelligence that I've heard rumors about, aren't you, Major Tallmadge?”

Ben blanched for a moment, managing to put his own cup down before asking, “Pardon? I'm not sure I heard you correctly.”

“Come now, Major, there is no need for modesty here,” the general continued, “I have to report to Washington and occasionally Congress themselves whenever Washington cannot appear. I was there, when Washington debriefed the assembled men and heard him refer to his Head of Intelligence as being acquainted with the strangeness that had encompassed the latter half of the battle at Brandywine. Of course, I did not put two and two together until news of the victory at Saratoga filtered down to here. But you were one of the very few officers during Brandywine who remained quite calm when those seven black-armored horsemen showed up. That, and also your associate here...”

Ben was at a loss as to what to do as Greene leaned forward slightly and turned his gaze towards Natalie, stating, “Very few women would have the courage to dress up as a man and continue that charade even in such company. From what I know of women from Europe, that's even rarer, and I meant it as a complement to your ability to blend in, my lady. However... I have seen such a charade before—Leigh, James, please come in.”

The door to the drawing room opened and in stepped two young men, one whom had been the same aide that had taken their cloaks, helmet, and hat. He remembered that there had been a second aide who took the items away. The other looked similar to the aide, but as soon as both stopped in the center of the room, giving them a clearer look in the brightly candlelit room, Ben blinked in surprise. The aide that had taken their outerwear was a young woman, and not a young man as he had originally presumed. This was further demonstrated when he saw her remove her spectacles and rub her face with the sleeves of her jacket for a moment, wiping some colored powder of sorts off her cheeks and the lower part of her jaw before untying her hair.

“Leigh and James Hattersfield are my aides, though not in the conventional sense that you may understand them as,” Greene explained. “These two are reformed thieves, twins if you must know. They inadvertently saved my life from a fire that consumed my first residence when I first was given this posting. I mean to say that though I do not possess the resources for intelligence collection you no doubt have at your disposal, Major Tallmadge, I do wonder what brings you and your associate here. It is not every day that the Continental Army's Head of Intelligence visits with a foreigner traveling with him.”

“If you would allow me, Major,” Natalie spoke up before Ben could answer, her accent completely changed from her previous one to a much thicker and sonorous one. Some of her words sounded quite garbled, but the accent was not heavy enough for the words to be misunderstood. Ben nodded once, curious as to where she would next spin her story since it was all but useless to protest the fact that in this light, Natalie clearly held the facial features of a woman.

“Forgive the deception, sir,” she continued to say, as Greene waved a dismissive hand towards the twin reformed thieves. As the two left and closed the door again, Natalie said, “My previous introduction to those at the checkpoint was only to ensure that should your people allow information to fall into those English hands, it would only confirm what they know of possible French and Prussian forces allying with this America. I am Natalya Petrova, special envoy of Empress Yekaterina Alexeyevna. You may know of my empress as Catherine of Russia.”

“Pardon my intrusion, my lady, but I thought Empress Catherine's court was French?” Greene asked.

“Yes, that is true,” Natalie continued, her accented words never faltering, or at least Ben thought it was not faltering. “But Russian Secret Services are drawn from all over our great country. I arrived here with a Baron von Stuben of Prussia who is now staying at your General Washington's headquarters. I am looking for three particular men, one of whom Major Tallmadge has told me is currently in this city. Information that I have also collected tell me that the other two may also be in the city.”

“Ah,” Greene said, folding his hands together. “Then I take it that this surprise inspection is real, but also a cover for your investigations?”

“Yes,” Ben answered as he glanced over towards Natalie and saw her nod slightly for him to pick up the story. He didn't know how much of it was true, but it was as Sackett had told him about cover stories: for a story to hold under scrutiny, one had to put a small grain of personal truth in the lie. Somewhere within the story that she had spun was a personal truth – he just could not tell what it was. “The first is a man named Nathaniel Sackett. He travels with my sister, Samantha. They've been visiting Philadelphia for the past couple of months.”

“Ah, yes, I remember seeing both Mr. Sackett and Miss Tallmadge a few days ago. Last I heard, they were staying at the Prancing Horse Inn. I will have James take you there. Now, the other two men? Perhaps I have seen them before?”

“It is better if I observe your men during inspection,” Natalie answered. “These two men that I am looking for are subjects similar to myself in the service of their crown and may be hiding among your men. For what purposes, that I do not know.”

“So they're fugitives from your empress?”

“Fugitives from the crown they served, and it is my empress's wish to see them detained. My empress wishes not to be drawn into a mistaken war against America.”

Greene was silent for a very long moment and Ben almost started to fidget before the man said, “Then we start with my command staff. If it is as you say Miss Petrova, that these two men are similar to your duty, I do not suffer such deception by my men.”

“Then we will take our leave for the Prancing Horse Inn, sir,” Ben spoke up, sensing that it was now appropriate to do so. “Where shall we meet at reveille tomorrow?”

“At the rear of the State House, just before the commons,” Greene said, standing up. Ben and Natalie also did the same, placing their cups of coffee to the small tables on either side of their chairs. As the general crossed the room and opened the door, they followed, and a moment later, the twin aides appeared from another room, ready to assist in whatever their general needed. “James, please show our guests to the Prancing Horse Inn.”

“Yes, sir,” the young man answered as his sister retrieved their cloaks and accessories from the wall hanging and silently handed the items over. Taking his helmet and cloak, he murmured his thanks as he wrapped the cloak around his shoulders and secured it. As much as he wanted to help Natalie with her cloak, he managed to refrain himself from doing so. He knew that any overt affectionate action, however innocuous as it was, even in such a setting, could be misconstrued by those present.

“Have a good night, sir,” he said, glancing back towards Greene who was standing by the entrance to the drawing room, just as the door to the cold outside was opened.

“You as well, Major, and Miss Petrova,” Greene answered.

Leaving the warmth of the house, it wasn't long before stable boys brought their horses, along with another one for Hattersfield. Mounting his horse, Ben waited for a moment for Hattersfield to take the lead before following the young man with Natalie riding by his side. The streets were less crowded now that night had fully settled in the city, though there were the occasional person hurrying to their destination, no doubt wanting to get away from the cold.

Ben turned his gaze briefly into the sky, seeing thick clouds covering the stars. There was no moon to be seen tonight, though last night it had illuminated the road to Philadelphia quite brightly. The smell of firewood burning through chimneys saturated the air, driving away the strange not-so-pleasant smell from earlier, though if he breathed in deeply enough, he could still smell it. Bringing his gaze back down from the skies, he saw patrol units still walked the streets, and he only had sympathy for how chilled they looked, even though their formations were still tight and their eyes still alert. No matter how much one moved in the winter, even if it was on horseback, the cold air still clung to their clothes and seeped into their bodies. Only the warmth of a hearth fire could drive it away.

The journey to the Prancing Horse Inn was relatively short, but long enough that Ben had the sense that Sackett deliberately chose the inn for his and Samantha's stay so that they were not near the main barracks or where the Governor-General lived. It was still within a rather nice area of the city, but enough so that they would be able to conduct their business of recruiting agents without drawing attention from the garrisoned soldiers.

“The Prancing Horse Inn, sir,” Hattersfield stated, as Ben gently tugged on the reins of his horse to stop, looking up at the rather quaint-looking building.

“Thank you, Mr. Hattersfield,” he answered as the young aide turned his horse around and knuckled his forehead in acknowledgment before riding off.

Dismounting, he removed his helmet and placed it on the horn of the saddle as he dragged the rein over his horse's head and knotted it against a post. Glancing over towards Natalie who had done the same except to leave her tricorn on, she gave him an imperceptible shrug. Climbing the stairs, he opened the door and was greeted by the warmth of the inn, along with a rather noisy crowd gathered in the dining and lounging area.

There were a few patrons of the inn who were of the Continental Army, judging by the uniforms they wore, but most of the clientele were merchants and the like. He pushed past a few of the patrons and approached the innkeeper's table. “Good evening,” he said, as the innkeeper looked up.

“Ah, sorry, sir,” the innkeeper said, “We don't have any more rooms open.”

“It's all right,” he answered as out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Natalie finally arrive and stood on his left, but immediately turned to lean back against the table, watching the crowd. “I'm looking for two people. I was told by General Greene that my sister, Samantha Tallmadge, and her aide, Nathaniel Sackett, were staying here.”

“Oh!” the innkeeper said, eyes widening slightly, “You must be Major Tallmadge! Sama—I mean, Miss Tallmadge spoke of you before. Lovely lady, I might add. So refined in mannerisms that I was suggesting that she'd stay at a better and more luxurious inn than I can offer here... but alas, she and Mr. Sackett kept returning here.”

“Are they currently present?” he asked.

“Ah, unfortunately, no,” the innkeeper answered. “I have not seen them for the past four days, though their rooms are paid for until the end of the week, sir.”

“Four days?”

“Yes,” the innkeeper nodded. “It's quite normal for me not to see them often whenever they're here, sir. The last time they were here, Miss Tallmadge spent two whole days away from here, and it turns out, she was having a grand time with a young Mr. Austin Roe who owns and runs a blacksmith's shop near the papermills along Whitpaine's Creek and the Schuylkill River. I you would like me to, Major, I could show you to their rooms and let you wait for them.”

“Yes, please,” he said, as the innkeeper nodded and took the set of master keys, and a lit candle on a holder from behind the table and lifted up a part of the table to pass through. As the two of them followed the innkeeper, he caught Natalie's slight shake of her head – she had not seen the other two men among the crowd.

The wooden stairs creaked as the three of them climbed to a less noisy floor, and as they traveled down the hall to where Sackett and Samantha were staying, the innkeeper said, “Please forgive my rudeness, the name's Davis, sir. John Davis.”

“A pleasure to meet your acquaintance, sir,” he answered, though a quick tug on the sleeve of his jacket had him glancing back to see Natalie shake her head again. He could only interpret her wordless gesture as to not introduce her alias to the innkeeper. He wondered why, pushed the concern to the side as he turned his head back to the front and continued to say, “Thank you for hosting my sister and Mr. Sackett.”

“Ah, here we are,” the innkeeper said after a few moments, stopping before a closed door. “Your sister stayed here, sir, and Mr. Sackett took the room next to her.”

As Davis unlocked the door, Ben asked, “Is it common for patrons to book the rooms until week's end?”

“No,” the innkeeper said opening the door before moving over to unlock the other room. “While Miss Tallmadge sometimes does, I was paid a visit by the lovely Miss Shippen the other day and was given coin and told to extend their stay until the end of the week.”

“Miss Margaret Shippen?” he asked, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

“Yes,” Davis answered, smiling as a ruddy red blush seemed to suffuse his pale face for a moment. “Miss Tallmadge sometimes hosted Miss Shippen for a few hours in her room, though I must say, I was clearly embarrassed to have such a lovely and beautiful woman stepping into such squalor here.”

“I see,” he said.

“Well then, I'll leave you to it, sir. If you need anything, I shall be down below with the rabble,” the innkeeper said, handing him the candle holder.

“Thank you, Mr. Davis,” he said and entered Samantha's room. As Natalie also entered and quietly closed the door behind her, he walked around and lit the various candles in the room, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. There was a made, four-posted bed, a small trunk at the foot of the bed, but nothing that she owned was lying out on the washbowl table or anywhere in the room.

“Curious that Miss Shippen's name was mentioned,” he heard Natalie murmur as she examined the washbowl table and chair that was next to it.

“Why did you not want me to introduce you?” he asked.

“It was unnecessary,” she answered, moving towards the trunk as he walked to the window to look out. “Davis wouldn't have cared either way. He already marked me as an aide of sorts to you when I entered. You caught all of his attention. I am just a shadow, which is what is necessary.” He heard her open the trunk and glanced back towards her to see her rifling through what little items were contained within it. “Damn, nothing,” she murmured after a few moments before closing the trunk.

Ben frowned for a moment as he thought about her words before asking, “Am I bait?!”

She looked up from her crouch before giving him a silent nod of affirmation. “If either the Director or Deputy are here, they know about you, Ben. History knows more about you than that of the Culper Ring, and if they or elements of Britannia are behind this merging of 400 years, then they're going to try to assassinate you or worse.”

“Or worse?” he asked, incredulous. “There's worse things than being killed?”

“Yes,” she answered in a short tone. “Death by hanging or however you execute spies in this day and age is a mercy compared to the torture you can inflict upon said spy. Detainment within a prison doesn't do anything for either the spy or those wanting information, but I suppose that its fortunate that the 'gentlemen rules of war' apply for this civilized age. There are no such rules from my time. It was better for a spy to die quickly than to fall into the hands of Britannian agents.”

“I will never give up any information to the enemy,” he fiercely said.

“That, I do believe,” she said, standing up. “But I didn't want to stop you from going to Philadelphia because for one, I know that I can't talk you out of it. You're tenacious when it comes to protecting your agents. Secondly, I also want to confirm for myself whether or not the Director or Deputy are here in the now and orchestrating events. If either one are here, I'm going to carry out my General Washington's orders.”

“Your General Washington's orders....” he began but then realized exactly what she was going to do. “You're going to assassinate either your future Andre or Simcoe? Or both?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Seventeen agents were sent to assassinate Director Andre. All failed. That man cannot be killed. However, we can capture and detain him. In my time, he has a way of slipping out of our grasp whenever we were close to detaining him, with theory pointing to him transferring his conscious mind to another body of sorts or something similar. That's also part of the reason why he cannot be killed. Here, 400 years in the past, materials, mechanisms, and technology does not exist for him to do so. If he is here, then he's trapped with nowhere to go. As for Simcoe, well, its a matter of capturing him. He's as human as the rest of us, flesh and blood, but he sticks to the shadows like a burr to cotton.”

“But first, we must find Mr. Sackett and Samantha,” he said, nodding in understanding. “It's a rather bold plan that I am willing to be party to. Shall we check Mr. Sackett's room?”

“Yes, lets,” she answered.

Affection and admiration for her filled his heart as he started to blow out the candles around the small room and opened the door to exit. However, he did not act upon it, for there was a time and place for everything, and now was definitely not the time and place to spill his innermost feelings to her. As per whatever strange cover in their roles they were playing in the inn, he exited first and she followed, closing the door behind her.

Upon entering Sackett's room, he lit the candles around the room, but it didn't escape his notice that it looked virtually the same, though there were some odds and ends on the washbowl table. As the door closed quietly behind him, he strode over to the table, placed the candle holder down and picked up the pieces. It looked like some sort of strange mechanism to possibly open something or place something into, though a few wooden screws or sorts seemed to be missing from it.

“There's nothing in here either,” he heard Natalie say in a frustrated tone as the sounds of Sackett's trunk were also closed. He turned just in time to see her look up and ask, “Anything?”

“There's this,” he said, waving the strange mechanism.

She made a face as she walked over and took a closer look at the piece. “Oh... Nathaniel's attempt at making a crude finger pulse reader... the alternate piece of truth-reader other than that serum. How uncivilized... Ben?”

He shook himself out of the reverie that he had fallen into, realizing that he had been staring at her. “I'm sorry,” he apologized. “It's just... we never seem to have a moment of peace together... We always seem to be so busy.”

“Well, Caleb and your injuries did ruin that first moment,” she said, her eyes crinkling slightly in laughter.

“He always did have a way of interrupting,” he agreed, smiling.

“Look at it this way Ben,” she said, placing the object back down on the washbowl table. “You and I, we see each other nearly every day since Brandywine, even if its not at a more private situation. That's more than what other soldiers quartered in Morristown have. Some have not seen their loved ones for months or years. Both of us are lucky in that respect.”

“I know,” he said, nodding. “Maybe when this current crisis of sorts is over... perhaps I will be granted some furlough and if you would... join me at Wethersfield?”

“I would love to,” she answered. “Though we may have to sneak away in the middle of the night. Nathaniel has eyes like a hawk...” She trailed off as her happy expression suddenly turned into one of concern as a frown graced her face. Stepping away from him, he watched as she took the candle holder on the table and walked over towards the window. Peering out of it for a moment, she then walked back towards the entrance before turning around to survey the entire room. “That's what's wrong...”

“Find something?” he asked, worried.

“The rooms,” she said, gesturing for him to approach and stand next to her. He did so and like she did a moment ago, also took a look around again. “They're both too clean, too tidy for even people missing for four days.”

“Come again? Is it not supposed to be the job of the innkeeper to tidy up after his patrons?”

“Yes, but not disturb his patrons' belongings. You remember how Nathaniel's office and even the barn was scattered with all sorts of stuff? He wouldn't leave any extremely sensitive documents out or bring it with him to Philadelphia for sure. The same's with Samantha. Living with her in college as her roommate got me used to how much of a mess she made, but she's just like Nathaniel – she would never leave sensitive information out or bring it with her.”

“Then Davis must have done something to both of their rooms,” he concluded.

“Perhaps, but he doesn't strike me as the type of person to go and clean up after his patrons too much until they leave. He also seemed pretty enamored by Samantha, and may have tried to be a gentleman around her – he wouldn't touch her items if he thought it was against his being such a person,” she explained.

“Then perhaps when Miss Shippen brought the coin to extend the stay...”

“I don't think so. I can't tell and it will have to wait until morning, but I thought I saw footprints in the snow on the rooftop. Whoever cleaned the rooms, might have entered through the windows.”

“But who would--” Ben began, but realized that he knew the answer to his aborted question. “Thieves... thieves always try to find the least protected way into a house... And we just met two of them.”

* * *

_Morristown_

 

“Benny-boy on an actual assignment...mission, whatever you call it?” Caleb said, whistling in admiration. Not that he didn't think that his best friend's mission to give Abe the invisible ink and other items was an actual mission... it was something he, Caleb, did as a normal part of his duties. Ben just happened to carry out those duties that time.

“Yeah! But don't worry, Natalie's gone with him. She'll protect him.”

“Oh,” he said, as a mischievous smile lit up his face as he stroked his beard in contemplation. “That's... interesting.”

“All right, darling ancestor of mine,” Carrie said, placing her hands on her hips, glaring at him with her best impression of being angry, though he knew that she only did that for jesting purposes. “Spit it out.”

“I think Benny-boy fancies Natalie and I think the feeling's mutual with her too,” he whispered in a conspiratorial manner even though the two of them were standing a bit ways away from the main camp, but still close enough to the house. They had been warming their hands against a campfire as thick snow fell to the ground. It looked like whatever training that was supposed to resume in the morning for the men would be delayed, judging from just how much snow had fell and was still was falling at the moment – a storm was definitely arriving.

“Caught them sitting real close to each other in the barn when I came back from Ridgefield. They jumped away from each other when I entered to drop of the package.”

“Ha!” she barked in laughter. “That's adorable, though--”

“Ho there!”

“Oh hey!” Carrie said, as both she and Caleb looked up to see a lantern waving in the near darkness that was almost blinding by the snow. Several red glowing eyes also stared out into the darkness, and though Caleb was well acquainted with those demonic-looking eyes, knowing that they belonged to the robotic horses of the 2nd Legionnaires, it was still unnerving to see them anywhere. “Sir!”

Both of them tromped through the already ankle-high snow that covered the ground and as they got closer, one of the two guards from the house had also approached. “Hey,” he greeted, seeing the little caravan of a cart being surrounded by six riders, one of them being the descendant of his best friend. “Fancy seeing you here. Miss the company of our foul mouths?”

“No, it was blissfully silent as I and my people instead, enjoyed basking in the confusion of one Major Bradford and his unit,” Benji Tallmadge answered in an equally dry tone. “That and also Rogers providing entertainment with his snips at Bradford. That was music to my ears.”

“Oh,” he said, nodding in a sage manner, “Good on ya.” He had heard from Carrie about Bradford's appearance at Elizabethtown and his subsequent assignment to North Fairfield to do some patrol around the area. While nothing had been dropped by Anna yet with regards to the suspicious Elizabethtown meeting, he would not be traveling to the dead drop any time soon...at least not until the storm had passed.

“So, sir, can I assume that these are the rifles we requested?”

“Yep,” Tallmadge answered nodding towards the guard before the guard hurried to the house to pass along the message. “Happy early Christmas, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you sir,” she said, smiling.

“You know, I always liked it when Father Christmas brought food and drinks to the children when I was younger,” Caleb said, stepping up to the cart and drew back the canvas tarp that was covering it. In the dim lantern light that was panned over a part of the contents, he saw glittering materials reflecting the firelight, along with the familiar-looking blocky black rifles that were crated. “I think this is much better.”

“Oh yeah,” he heard Tallmadge say as the six riders dismounted and collapsed their horses back into cubes, “I forgot that Christmas, or at least the exchanging of presents during the winter holiday season hasn't been invented yet.”

A commotion was heard from the entrance to the house, causing most of those standing near the caravan, along with a few curious soldiers who had noticed the arrival of several strange guests, to look towards the house. Caleb saw several of Washington's aides, one of whom was Hamilton emerging from the house, wrapping their cloaks around them to shield them from the storm.

“Snow's coming down harder,” he heard Carrie mutter.

“We think it's a nor'easter that's in the midst of arriving,” Tallmadge spoke up. “Almost didn't make it out of Nyack after we secured the cache.”

“You know, I used to love hearing the stories of how in the late 20th and early 21st century, children used to get days off because of the nor'easters,” Carrie wistfully stated. “Couldn't get to school because the roads were impassable and it was dangerous for anyone driving fossil-fuel burning vehicles to do so. They got fucking days off for snowstorms! Nowadays, or at least in the 22nd century, they just burned and melted that shit right off the streets and driveways with lasers and kicked us to school. No fucking 'snow days' for us, thank you very much. Bah... those children had it lucky back then.”

“I have no idea what you just complained about, but I'm just going to nod and sympathize with you,” Caleb stated, just as Hamilton and the other aides arrived.

“You're such an asshole.”

“Only to my friends and descendants,” he said, smiling.

“Ah,” he heard Hamilton greet, nodding his head towards Tallmadge, “You must be this other Major Tallmadge that General Washington mentioned. You look a lot like him. Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Hamilton, sir. Pleasure to finally meet you.”

Caleb managed to suppress his laughter at the surprised look that eclipsed Tallmadge's expression, though Carrie was not as successful as he was in the attempt. Moments later, he saw Tallmadge snap out of his surprised fugue, shook hands with Hamilton and say, “Uh, sir, it's an honor. We got word that General Washington has requested an intercept of weapons, and well, here they are. We also managed to intercept a shipment of robotic horses that were intended for those at Westpoint. Where do you want us to put them?”

“There's a shed out back,” Hamilton answered, gesturing for the aides to start unloading the cart. “We can store them there for now. The general would also like to receive a debriefing of the situation in Connecticut after we're done.”

“All right,” Tallmadge said, nodding while Caleb reached in to pick up a crate of blocky rifles. “Hey, Carrie, can you go find my ancestor? Let him know I'm here? I also need to talk to him.”

“Erm, sir... he's not here. He's in Philadelphia.”

“For how long?” he heard Talllmadge ask, though he thought he heard a very strange nervous tone within Ben's descendant's voice with the question. He paused in his carrying of the crate as others of Tallmadge's group and the aides streamed past him, making their way to the shed that had previously kept Rogers and the other two of the Queen's Rangers prisoner. In the months that he had spent between Setauket and Ridgefield over the spring and summer, he had never heard Tallmadge speak like that before. Whereas Ben always had a hesitantly optimistic quality about him that was sometimes belayed by uncertainty, Ben's descendant was much more confident and self-assured in terms of characteristics. Hearing uncertainty within Tallmadge's voice spooked him.

“Sir,” he heard Carrie begin keeping her voice low enough that Caleb could barely hear her, “They found out that Director Andre or Deputy Director Simcoe may possibly be in the city and both he and Natalie are on a mission to confirm whether or not that's true. And to also rescue Nathaniel Sackett, Sam, and whatever agents we've been trying to cultivate within the city. I stayed behind because with what they found, they also uncovered the possibility that there is a spy or assassin within the camp who may be under orders to kill Washington. My cover in Elizabethtown was also blown, so I've also been reassigned to help Baron von Stuben train the troops.”

The silence that followed the statement was long enough that Caleb grew concerned and turned back, stopping before the two. However, he stopped short of actually including himself within the circle, all due in part to the very stony expression that graced Tallmadge's face. Instead of what he expected to be either an exclamation of one or several curse words, Caleb heard him quietly say, “That explains the bad feeling in my gut. Is Washington aware of the Philadelphia mission and the possible attempt on his life?”

“Yes for the first, no for the second, sir,” she answered. “None of what we discussed with regards to Washington's life left Q-branch... the barn. We don't know who the assassin or spy is or are. Hamilton's a burr to Washington's side, as is Washington's manservant, Billy Lee, and we know what happens to both of them in the future. I trust either of them to keep an eye on the Commander-in-Chief whenever I don't have an excuse to be there.”

“Too cloudy and no stars or moon, too fast of a snow accumulation that it will just drain the horses' energy to plow through, and we don't have satellites... no GPS for the horses either, which means we're stuck here until the storm passes,” Tallmadge said, sighing in frustration. “Dammit,” he quietly cursed. “How sure is Natalie on Andre or Simcoe being in Philadelphia?”

“Pretty sure, sir. She would never risk your ancestor otherwise. That and also, her own existence is on the line if Sackett is killed by either Simcoe or Andre. I think she would have gone on her own, except sir, your ancestor is pretty bullheaded when it comes to protecting agents.”

“Rescue mission?” Caleb finally jumped in, surprised at himself for managing to keep the alarm out of his own voice. It was one thing to hear of the matter being spoken again, but when it came to Ben being in possible grave danger, even though he was sure that Carrie was telling the truth that Ben had literally jumped into the danger himself, he was ready to drop everything to go save his best friend.

“Rescue of a rescue more like it,” he heard Carrie mutter.

“I hope it doesn't come down to that,” Tallmadge said. “Still, I have a bad feeling about all of this. All right, as soon as the storm stops, its going to be you, me, Caleb here because he's going to kick my ass to kingdom come if I don't include him--”

“Damn straight I'm going to, Tall-green-boy,” he interjected.

“And Kelly and Carter rounding out the team,” Tallmadge finished. “Spiers, Huang, and Trevelyan will stay behind and take over training and watch duties on Washington.”

“I hope Lieutenant Spiers can speak French, because I really hate going through Frenchie to speak to von Stuben. Also, sir... horse?” Carrie asked as Caleb saw her point at him and gave her a quizzical look.

“Yeah, another Christmas present for you, Lieutenant Brewster,” Tallmadge said in a humorless tone. “You finally get your own robotic horse.”

* * *

_Philadelphia, the next day_

 

Ben held out a gloved hand, catching a few thick flakes of snow in them before closing his hand into a fist. His horse snorted and shook its head, sending the fine layer of snow flying from its mane, but he continued to sit and wait at the dark alleyway, eyes on the enormous house that was home to Judge Shippen and his daughter. Behind him, he could hear the impatient wicker of another horse, but its rider did not say a word and merely waited for him to make the first move.

Both he and Natalie had ended up staying at the Prancing Horse Inn, after he convinced the innkeeper to allow them to temporarily stay in Sackett's room. They were exhausted after a day's hard ride to the city, and according to Davis, the next inn that possibly had open rooms was on the other side of the Schyulkill River. The more unfortunate part of the arrangement was that he could not come up with a plausible excuse for even himself to be present in Samantha's room. For even as a 'brother', it was still improper to be sleeping in a woman's room without her permission. He had initially felt awkward and uncomfortable in sleeping in the same room as Natalie, even though Davis had assumed Natalie was a male aide of sorts. He felt it was improper for him to share a room, much less a bed with a woman who was not married to him.

There had been no way around it though, and in the end, he had taken to sleeping on the floor, insisting that she take the bed. Just before he had drifted off to sleep, he had heard a rather loud _thump_ , causing him to awaken and turn to his side. He had seen in the darkness, Natalie drag most of the bed coverings and blanket to the floor, before hearing her footsteps approach. He was further surprised when a rather warm heap of said bed coverings was bunched against his back, as if it were a wall of sorts before hearing Natalie murmur a complaint about the bed being too soft. He could only assume that she then proceeded to lie down on the other side of the bedding wall, for a few minutes later, he heard her start breathing deeply, fast asleep. He didn't know when he himself had fallen asleep, but eventually he did, and for the first time in a very long while, his dreams were not as bothersome as they had been.

Morning had brought no mention of what had happened last night, and instead, they had silently folded and cleaned the bedding of whatever it had picked off the floor as best as possible before heading out to meet General Greene and his command staff. He had been surprised to see the Hattersfield twins following Greene around, keeping a respectable distance between them and their general. However, after yesterday's thoughts about thieves creeping through the rooftop and entering through windows, there was too much speculation and not enough concrete facts for him to consider Greene, or at least the twins that the general had employed as party to his missing agents.

That did not mean that he had dismissed the two from suspicion. During the inspection, it had not escaped his notice that Natalie was also watching the twins with keen eyes, though she had minutely shook her head at the fact that the Director and Deputy were also not within Greene's command staff. After the command staff was cleared, they had proceeded onwards towards the nearest barracks for further inspection, until the falling snow being whipped up by the bitterly cold wind had made it a little too unbearable for any of them to be outside and standing still.

He and Natalie had taken an early evening meal with Greene, stating the half-truth that Sackett and Samantha were not at the Inn, but also stating that perhaps they would visit certain acquaintances of Samantha's the next day. The general had wished them the best of luck and even offered help in locating the two. Ben had politely declined the offer, and had stated that the innkeeper had told them it was normal for the two to not be present for a few days at a time. Greene had accepted the explanation with grace and invited them for yet another evening meal the day after, stating that Sackett and Samantha were also invited. Though he had indicated to the general that they would return to the Prancing Horse Inn to retire for the remainder of the night, he had been hoping his words would give him a clue as to the nature of the twin aides who stood attentively at Greene's side.

He opened his hand again – they were instead now near the Shippen family's house. Though he wanted to absolve the Shippen family of anything to do with the disappearance of Sackett and Samantha, something about what they discovered during the analysis of the letters in the barn nagged at him. There had to be some degree of complicity of sorts that enabled Peggy Shippen to write the letters. Perhaps her father may not have known, which did not spell relief for him, but perhaps either had been threatened with harm from either Andre or Simcoe, if either of the two were even here.

Quietly sighing and quieting his thoughts as best as possible, he gathered up his horse's rein and gently kicked the sides. Moving forward through the ankle-high snow, he approached the house and did not look back to see what Natalie was doing. They had discussed the infiltration plan, with him openly visiting the Shippen family, while she would find a way to sneak into the cellar or other areas of suspicion to see if there were any sign of Sackett or Samantha at the house.

Heeling his horse to a stop as what he could only assume as the butler of the household appear from the entrance and quickly make his way towards him, he waited until the butler got closer before saying, “Pardon me for my late visit, sir, but my name is Benjamin Tallmadge. I just arrived in Philadelphia and I was wondering if it was too late to call upon Miss Margaret Shippen.”

“Indeed it is not too late, good sir,” the butler said. “Another hour and it might have been, but if you would pardon me for a moment, let me see if the young miss is available.”

Ben patiently waited as the butler bustled back into the house, refusing to shiver when a gust of wind blew by, though his horse did snort again and shake its head again to get rid of yet another dusting of snow. He did not have to wait long as the butler returned and made a gesture towards the air. Not a moment later, a stable boy scampered out from the side of the house, and Ben dismounted just as the butler said, “If you would please follow me, sir.”

Giving his horse over to the stable boy, he followed the butler up the steps and as he entered the house, he removed his helmet and handed it to a servant. The gloves and cloak also went to the same servant and a moment later, he was led down the foyer and hall and down towards a familiar-looking room. It was the same room that he had made his acquaintance with Miss Shippen during the ball, though only Judge Shippen was sitting in the room when he entered.

“Sir, Major Tallmadge,” the butler said before bowing slightly and left.

“Major,” Shippen said, gesturing for him to approach and have a seat across from the small table that he was seated at. “Please, please. I'm sure you've had a tiring journey from Morristown, especially in this dreadful weather. Perhaps a glass of claret to help ease the aches of such a journey?”

Ben nodded in acceptance as he slipped into the offered seat and took a sip of the claret. “I appreciate you and your daughter seeing me, sir,” he said after a moment. “I mean not to be so forward, but with the exchange of letters from your daughter to me, may I ask your permission to court her while I am here conducting troop inspections?”

“Ah, our great General Washington wants to know the conditions of our troops here, then?” Shippen asked. “And yes, you do have my permission, Major--”

“Father!” the sharp voice of Peggy Shippen echoed in the room as Ben looked to his right to see the beautiful young woman storm in, wearing a pale green silk dress. Her chest was heaving slightly in fear, panic, or just exertion from hurrying here – he didn't know, but the mess of ringlets that had fallen from her carefully arranged hair told him otherwise. She had ran here. He immediately stood up, for even with all of his suspicions about the Shippen family, manners still were to be had in such settings.

“What are you doing?” she asked in a horrified tone.

Confusion filled him as he glanced over towards Judge Shippen who had also stood, as he heard the Judge say, “Margaret, manners! You remember Major Tallmadge from the ball?”

“Yes, yes I do,” she answered, looking straight at him with pleading eyes. “Please, Major, please leave, now. You're in grave danger. My father does not know--”

“On the contrary, I think Judge Shippen does know what he is doing, Miss Shippen.”

The voice, so sinister, yet so smooth, deep, and confident in quality had come from the right corner of the room, where it was incredibly dark enough that Ben had not noticed someone sitting there. He took a step back in surprise as the figure stepped into the candlelight that surrounded the small area of the room. With a crooked jaw and eyes that were disconcertingly pale green-blue in color, he recognized the man – the Kennedy Trading Company owner, Montague Falsworth. But the voice... it certainly wasn't what he remembered Falsworth sounding like.

“What--” was all he managed to utter before his vision became quite hazy and pitched. Dizziness clawed at him as he found himself stumbling backwards, knocking over the chair that he had been seated in, and barely hearing the crash of glass on the floor. Somewhere in that, he thought he heard a high-pitched scream. He tried to shake his head, to clear his mind and his eyes, but everything around him felt so sluggish. He tried to draw his pistol, but even that was thwarted as he fell to the hard floor and found himself staring up at the ceiling.

“Major Benjamin Tallmadge, of the Continental Army and Head of Intelligence for General George Washington,” he heard Falsworth say as the dizziness subsided for a moment to allow him to see Falsworth standing above him. He thought he saw the man dig into the side of his neck before seemingly rip off his entire head to reveal another visage. But as the dizziness returned, accompanied by darkness creeping from the edges of his vision, he tried to fight it, tried to stay awake--

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am John Andre, Director of...”

Ben's eyes slowly drooped closed as the man's voice rapidly faded, and a moment later, everything was gone.

* * *

_Morristown_

 

It was not only the clattering of the goblet of ale that Tallmadge had been sipping, but five voices exclaiming, “Sir!” at the same time that caused Caleb to jump and turn from his examination of his new robotic horse that was tethered to Lieutenant Spiers's horse for power charging purposes. “Shite!” he cursed along with the others as he too scrambled up from where he had been and made it to the table within the rather large tent that had been erected by the future-people.

“Jesus,” he whispered as he saw just how pale Tallmadge looked as he was pulled up from his sudden slump over the table, looking quite dazed and confused. The man looked as white as clean bed sheets.

“Sir! Stay with me sir!” he heard Carrie say as one of the others under Tallmadge's command hurried to push all paraphernalia off of the table as the others hoisted their commander up onto the table. “What's happening to him? Someone check that ale for poison!”

“No,” he said realizing what had happened. “No,” he repeated his statement, this time louder. “Ben... It's Ben...”

“Oh fuck,” Carrie cursed.

“We need to go now,” he stated, hurrying towards his robotic horse.

“We can't!” she protested. “The snow's too deep and the storm's not over yet. Even with the compasses enabled in them, we'd drain the horses even before they made it to Philadelphia!”

“Tether them,” they heard Tallmadge croak in the silence before a series of wracking coughs over took him, as Caleb paused with his fiddling of unknown items on his horse and turned to see the man curl up slightly on the table. “We have to go now. Ben's not dead, but something's really, _really_ wrong,” Tallmadge said as his coughs subsided.

“Sir, you should stay,” Carrie said, as Caleb saw Spiers help his commander sit up. “We can take care of this. You're not well--”

“Bullshit, el-tee,” Tallmadge spat out, rubbing his chest. “Whoever the fuck caused me to walk over my ancestor's grave is going to find him or herself at the business end of my rifle. I'm going. Tether the horses. That's an order. We're going to get to Philadelphia no matter what. Spiers, you have command here. Protect Washington at all cost.”

“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant answered.

As Caleb left the horses alone, seeing that the other members of Tallmadge's group began to modify the horses for immediate departure through the storm and the snow, he approached the man. Slinging an arm around his shoulders, he helped him up as Carrie hurried to his other side and together, both of them steadied him. “We'll bring them home,” he said. “All of them.”

* * *

_Philadelphia_

 

The near whisper of the lovely Peggy Shippen's denials to what had just been wrought was like music to his ears, but as Director John Andre dropped the full facial mask that he had been wearing for the greater part of a few months, he heard the clatter of boots stream into the room. Turning, he found no pleasure in seeing the alarmed look upon Judge Shippen's face, though the young Miss Shippen carried quite a shocked and remorseful expression as she continued to murmur her denials.

“Sir,” one of the mercenaries, hired and transported to the era just before he had crossed over himself, said. “We caught someone else lurking on the second floor.”

“Who is it?” he asked.

“You might want to see for yourself, sir,” the same mercenary answered as two other people appeared at the threshold, dragging a person in who was dressed in a colonial uniform. However, Andre merely sighed not in exasperation or in pleasure, but in acceptance as he recognized the person who was fighting tooth and nail to get free, despite being bound and gagged.

“Natalya Petrova Sackett,” he calmly stated as he strode forward and stopped before the woman. “Formerly of my employ and of your motherland, the Russian Secret Service, now of the rebel Culpeper Spy Ring... or is that Culper Ring of the Continental Army nowadays? I was wondering if you had crossed over to this era.”

Though she continued to struggle, he saw that his words were having an affect on her, though the defiant fire in her eyes died quite quickly as her eyes strayed over towards the prone body of one Major Tallmadge. “Take her to where the other one is,” he said to the mercenaries. “Him too,” he continued, gesturing to Tallmadge.

“We've done what you've asked,” Judge Shippen nervously spoke up, trying to not betray the fact that when Andre had removed his full facial mask of Montague Falsworth, it had clearly shocked both the Judge and Miss Shippen. “Now please, good sir, let us leave. We will not tell anyone of this.”

Andre raised an eyebrow. “On the contrary,” he said, “I expect both of you to reap what you've sown. You will see this to the end; to see what being a traitor is and what becomes of traitors such as yourselves.”

* * *

It was the stinging pain of something sharp and thin being pressed into his skin and seemingly _up_ his arm that woke Ben up. However, a vice-like grip had clamped down on his left arm as he jumped slightly, a sudden awareness of just how he was positioned and tied to a chair running through him. He opened his eyes, but just as immediately as the dim lighting of the area he was in assaulted his vision, a cold voice said, “I wouldn't move if I were you, Major. Otherwise, this needle will rip your blood vessels apart and that would most definitely hurt.”

His eyes widened of this own accord as a rather excruciatingly painful sensation bloomed across his chest and seemed to travel all the way down his body to his toes. He wanted to scream in pain, but even as he tried to, something was preventing him from voicing that pain and instead, only allowed him to open his mouth in silence. He managed to look over towards where hands were clamped down on his left arm, and saw a thin sliver of metal, thinner than he could ever possibly imagine, sticking out of his skin. That sliver of metal was attached to some cylindrical object that had a liquid inside that was being depressed into his body.

“Ah yes, the voiceless scream of agony,” the same voice said as he looked up to see that it was Andre – Director Andre, as he remembered before he had fallen into darkness. “It's a common reaction to this injection... it's just only your brain trying to prevent anymore pain from being wrought. Any sound or noise coming from you only amplifies the serum. Any movement you make also amplifies the pain, though it's not as acute until something, like your clothes, actually rubs against your skin. It's quite fascinating to watch you, Major, to see an 18th century person react in a similar manner to those we use this on for the 22nd century. It seems that the instinct to protect and to preserve is quite strong in your century, Major.”

The sliver of metal was suddenly pulled out, sending a wave of pain through him that almost caused him to embrace the darkness again. However, he fought to keep himself awake, drawing in the chill of the air around him to keep his eyes open. A small welling of his blood from where the metal had pierced his skin formed, and eventually started to trickle down his arm, slowly dripping on the floor. As the Director stepped away Ben tore his eyes away from the tiny wound and finally got a good look as to where he was. It was a cellar, judging from the damp, musty smell and equally freezing air, and he had been stripped of his jacket. He was still wearing his vest, but had his shirt sleeves rolled all the way up to his shoulders.

His hands were bound in thick ropes slightly back against the sides of the chair, along with his feet, and directly in front of him, also bound in the same manner, were Natalie and Samantha. Nathaniel Sackett was no where to be seen, and both women were as awake as he was, though like him, Natalie had had her jacket also removed, vest untouched, and shirt sleeves rolled up. There was a defiant look in her eyes and she was not staring at him, but rather at the retreating form of Andre.

Samantha was dressed in her forest-green cotton dress, though it looked quite dirtied and soiled with dark spots along the sleeves and chest – he hoped that the dark spots were not blood. Her straw-colored hair looked quite matted and disheveled, and her skin seemed to be tinged a slight blue. She was awake, but he could see her shivering every so often – how long had she been exposed to the cold here?

He tried to turn, to see where the Director was going, but each movement he attempted to make sent ripples of agony crawling all over him. Wincing and still unable to cry out, he blinked back the haze and looked past the two women to see that they and Andre were not the only ones in the cellar. Sitting, but not bound to chairs further away from the two women, and on a raised platform as if they were the audience to such a gruesome spectacle were Judge Shippen and his daughter. Both looked quite ill, and as Ben's eyes met Peggy Shippen's eyes, she looked away, her face covered in grief.

“Now Major,” Andre spoke up in the silence as Ben heard footsteps returning, though they passed him by and stopped before the two women. There were two apparatuses of a thin needle-like object attached to a cylindrical body filled with a different colored liquid in Andre's right hand. “I heard of the torture that you and Lieutenant Caleb Brewster inflicted upon a Captain John Graves Simcoe during his brief incarceration in Connecticut last year. While I am by no means a particularly violent man, I do abhor such barbaric ways to extract information. You see, this--” the man held up the objects in his hand “--this is how we extract information from 22nd century spies and prisoners-of-war. This is how we also train our agents to resist such extraction, though we only give them a small dosage of this particular serum.”

Without warning, Andre had switched one of the objects into his left hand as his right hand stabbed the metal sliver into Natalie's arm. The contents were quickly depressed and not a moment later, he had also stabbed Samantha's arm with the left hand contents and done the same. There was no reaction from either women except that defiance still shone through their eyes, but Ben managed to find his voice and tried to plead mercy, saying, “Stop it... please.” He nearly blacked out with those words.

Andre turned and merely arched an eyebrow at him, saying, “Resilient... much more than I anticipated, but no, Major. I will not stop. I am not my namesake – I am better than my namesake, whom I know would never stoop to torture women such as these two agents that I trained.”

“Please,” he tried to plead again, feeling fire scrape across his throat and chest with the single word as Andre brushed past him again and went to pick up another item.

The Director returned to stand in front of the two women, pressing something small against the right side of their temples saying, “While both of you watch and feel the deaths of the seventeen agents your General Washington sent to kill me, contemplate the futility of resisting. You will give me what I seek, agents, and until then this will not stop.”

“Stop it,” Ben managed to say again, trying to press the pain aside. His eyes watered as he blearily saw the Director turn from his proclamation and crouch down so that he was staring eye to eye.

“You are spies,” Andre stated. “And thus you will be accorded a spy's death, but only when I have received information that I want. Your rules of warfare, your gentleman's way of conducting this foolish rebellion does not exist here. We may be physically in 1777, but my dear Major Tallmadge, by associating with rebel spies of another era and of another time, you're in 2177.”

“We'll never tell you anything,” he defiantly stated as he saw black spots appear before his eyes for a brief moment.

“I don't expect _you_ to, Major,” the Director stated, standing up. “I expect you to play bait, just as your descendant here, Samantha Tallmadge, has. I expect you to lure your other descendant, US Army Major Tallmadge, along with Lieutenant Caleb Brewster, his descendant, and perhaps a few others, out of Setauket and Morristown in a vain attempt to rescue you and their friends.”

“No,” he whispered, as a horrified feeling engulfed him. If Andre knew that his descendant was in Setauket, then perhaps the Director had been there since the beginning... and he realized that the Director had been. That British captain who stood next to Major Hewlett during the negotiation of the truce and cease fire – it had to have been Director Andre in disguise. Otherwise, who would have brought thirty Britannian soldiers to Setauket to try to permanently change history?

He had been blinded and deceived by his own selfish want, his own arrogance, and his own stupidity for focusing too much on matters that should not have concerned him. Washington was right; he had been too preoccupied and narrow-minded to only focus on Lee as the threat and asking his agents to find information about Lee. They were greatly divided within the Continental army, but even with a united front presented to de Francy and others, British forces were counting on that division. Britannia had taken it and exploited it.

General Washington was not the only commander in danger – every single commander in Morristown and outside of it was in mortal danger. And with that realization, there also came the knowledge Abe and the others in New York City were in equal danger.

* * *

_Morristown_

 

“It is within your right, my friend,” Washington stated before taking a sip of the port that swirled within the small glass and set it down on the end table. The chair that he had settled into, next to the fireplace was a little too soft for his taste, but company was present. The man who sat across from him, dressed in the blues of the army, as also lounging as best as possible in his own chair, though one of his legs, braced in wood and leather, was propped up by a small stool. Major General Benedict Arnold was also sipping a small glass of port, but had paused mid-sip with Washington's words.

“Would that be the case and be so easy,” Arnold answered, placing his port back down on the small end table. “The men are suffering out there. There is inadequate supplies and clothing for their warmth, and each day, more of them fall victim to rotting feet, frostbite, and other ailments of the winter. Dysentery is spreading, as is malcontent, and I will not avail myself to the luxuries that others within the house contend to while my own wounds are healing.”

He remained silent as his friend fell silent, understanding that though Arnold's words had meant to be a barb against the other generals of rank living within the house, he, Washington, had inadvertently been included in that barb. He flicked his gaze towards his desk that had been moved to the corner of the room to allow him and Arnold to sit by the fire. Though there was a small stack of reports that needed to be tended to, he had not chosen to distribute them to his aides just yet. It had been a while since he had seen his friend, and in an attempt to reconcile the differences that governed their views of the war so far, he had invited the man to the house.

There was a sharp knock on the door to the office, drawing his attention from the matter at hand. His aides knew that he was not to be disturbed unless it was extremely urgent. “Enter!” he said.

“Sir,” Hamilton said even before the door fully opened to allow him to slip in. The man closed the door behind him and continued, saying, “Pardon my intrusion, but a Lieutenant Spiers of the armament delegation just informed me of a recent happening within the camp.”

“Go on,” he said, seeing a very strange hesitation encompass his aide.

“Sir, Major Tallmadge suffered some kind of seizure a few hours ago. He, along with Lieutenant Caleb Brewster, Lieutenant Carrie Brewster, and two others of the delegation left shortly afterwards. Their destination is Philadelphia.”

Washington managed to keep his tone steady as he absorbed the information and after a moment to collect and compose himself, said, “Thank you, Hamilton, for informing me.”

“Sir, if the fact that this future Major Tallmadge has shown an ailment, does that--”

“You are dismissed, Hamilton,” he interrupted, this time unable to keep the shortness and anger out of his tone.

“Yes, sir.”

Washington waited until Hamilton had left the room, with the door closing tightly behind him. While he was aware that Arnold's eyes were watching him as a hawk would watch its prey, he did not turn to his friend just yet. Instead, he paced around the office, his thoughts racing, as he tried to calm himself down, to keep himself from lashing out. Unfortunately, in the midst of his pacing, Arnold spoke up, saying, “I did not know that Major Tallmadge was afflicted by a palsy of sorts.”

“He is not,” he ground out. “Neither of them are. Both are of sound mind and body.”

“Neither?”

Washington stopped his pacing as he realized that Arnold never received the full story as to the extent of just how strange the world and the war had become. However, he was not feeling generous at the moment to share in such details, and turned to stare into fireplace. “Major Benjamin Tallmadge is my Head of Intelligence,” he stated, knowing that his friend at least deserved a clarification to what had just been exchanged, even if disbelief and a call for the doctor would be on Arnold's lips. “His descendant, the commander of a three-hundred strong battalion garrisoned on the eastern half of Long Island, is known as Benjamin S. Tallmadge. He is also a Major within the future army, and former Army Intelligence officer.”

“Then the affliction, this seizure,” Arnold began after a minute of long silence, surprisingly keeping the tone of his voice as calm as possible, “actions of the ancestor affecting the descendant?”

He picked up the port on the end table, knowing that he needed something to calm himself down. “I sent my Head of Intelligence to Philadelphia to investigate--” he took a sip of the port, but it was much too thick and much to sweet for him. It didn't give him the salve he needed to soothe his anger and frustration – and enraged, he threw the glass into the fireplace. It exploded in the fireplace with a hiss. Slamming the palm of his hand that had been holding the glass against the mantelpiece, his fingernails scratched against the slate as he curled his hand into a fist.

“I was certain... certain I was right...” he whispered, furious at not only for what had happened, but also for himself for being so blinded and dismissive of the facts that had been presented before him. The entire Culper Ring was now either in New York or Philadelphia and due to the extremely foul weather, he had no other resources to send to their aid. He could only hope that the future-people were successful in petitioning General Greene for aid – if they were able to make it to Philadelphia, and if the storm did not kill them first.

“Certain that there wasn't any danger...” he said.

 

~*~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hark a historical note: Yekaterina Alexeveyna (aka Catherine the Great) was empress of Russia during the setting of the United States's Revolutionary War. She was Prussian by birth (under the name: Sophie Friederike Auguste von Anhalt-Zerbst-Dornburg) and Russian by marriage (to Peter III). Her court was primarily French in language, but she have a lot of Russian advisers who were greatly favored. In real life, she wasn't directly involved in the Revolutionary War, but she was involved in a lot of European politics/land grab/succession crises during the time.
> 
> 7 Dec 2015: In other news, this may be the last chapter for the year before I go on an extended leave until early next year. Duties and real-life calls, and unfortunately, I have to respond. However, I may have time to put out one more chapter before the next year rolls around, but that remains to be seen. I will be answering comments and questions though, so please, fire away!


	11. The Philadelphia Experiment (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4 Jan 2016: Happy New Year and welcome back to the madness!

**Chapter 11: The Philadelphia Experiment (Part 2)**

 

_Morristown, January, 1778_

 

The crackle of the fireplace was the only sound that filled the silence in the air as Washington stared at the hypnotic flames. Sitting across from him, smoking a pipe was the only man he knew whom would never hold any assessment, no matter how harsh or painful it was to hear, from him. The man was highly opinionated, but knew that he only asked for frank assessments because he, Washington, valued it. No one else at the camp had his confidence in matters that governed their current predicament.

“Tell me, Nathaniel,” he said just as a tiny portion of a well-burnt log crumbled, sending a shower of ember sparks floating up the hearth. “Now that you have seen the enemy and have come to know him, do you think we can win this war?”

“If you had asked me that a month ago,” Sackett answered, puffing slowly on the pipe, “I would have said no. But now, even with what has happened, I think we do have a chance.”

“Even though the Ring is compromised in New York City?”

“Especially if the Ring is compromised,” Sackett answered. “This Director Andre knows about them and we still control them. It is safe to say that Captain Simcoe and Major Andre also know about them. Our agents are not dead yet because Director Andre wants information... most likely from their captured future counterparts, which means, they're ripe for becoming counter-intelligence agents and saboteurs.”

“Then,” he said, removing his hand from his chin as he draped his arm over the chair's armrest and turned from staring at the fire and towards his friend. There was a rather devilishly grim smile upon his friend's face that was complemented by a rather inhuman glee shining through his eyes. “The Culper Ring is salvageable?”

“Only so,” the man said, nodding once. “As long as you do not show Tallmadge what exactly his signal agent has sent, but a modified version of it that leaves out _that_ particular information about Lee. The boy's riled up enough about Lee as is and Bradford is safely away in Connecticut.”

“Is that fondness I hear in your tone, Nathaniel?” he asked.

“Only because he didn't leave all of us for dead at that madman's mercy.” Washington saw Sackett reach back and pull out a leather-bound book of sorts that had a piece of twine bound around it. “This,” Sackett said, waving the book slightly before extending it out for him to take, “is Natalie's diary, specifically, what she remembers of her own history and that of the world in the 400 years that separate us from them.”

He took it, but did not unbind the twine to look into it. A diary was a personal item, and even though it was under the care of Nathaniel, it was improper for him to look at it without permission. “George,” he heard Nathaniel say in a tired tone, “you need to read all the entries for Andre... both of them. She let me read the entries before all of this and given what's happened along with the new information in our hands, I believe that you need to know about this as well.”

“And what of my Head of Intelligence?” he asked after a moment of consideration before taking his friend's recommendation and unbinding the leather-bound notebook. “Will he also be informed?”

“No,” Sackett answered. “Consider him fully occupied with the military and civilian Intelligence affairs of those here in our United States and with the intelligence we received from our new allies from the future. _I_ will need to help increase foreign communications and hope that Mr. Adams and Mr. Franklin are still within our sphere. My agent in London, Pikadilly, is not answering, and that is never a good sign.”

“I see,” he said, nodding before flipping through several pages until he came across the first entry that had the name of 'Andre' titled across it. He silently read through the extensively detailed first, second, third... all the way up to the tenth and final entry on both men within the diary before setting it back down. What was written in those words astonished him, but also caused worry to worm its way into the cold fury that was taking hold upon him.

“So then,” he said, closing the diary and bound it back up. “How soon do you think he or British-Britannia forces will strike?”

“As early as spring,” Sackett answered, weaving his fingers together before nervously bending them. “And given that we know that this Battle of Monmouth was a victory for us during the summer, they'll force the issue and try to make it a victory for them. The question is, how?”

“And how to discredit and capture a traitorous general with it too.”

* * *

_Many days prior... Philadelphia, December 1777_

 

“Christ, I've forgotten how miserable Philadelphia was during the winter.”

“Nothing's changed in 400 years then, eh?” Caleb answered as he glanced over at his descendant who had rested her chin on the fence post. While it was still snowing heavily, it was not as heavy as it had been during the arduous trek from Morristown to here. With the horses tethered to each other, drawing and supplying power to each other as they pushed through the bitter cold and fury of the storm, Caleb had considered it a miracle that they had made it to the city without dying from exposure.

He was still shivering and chattering in the cold, but parts of him, including the important bits had gone so cold and numb that he relied on his own sheer will to continue to push forward. The robotic horses had all been drained and were collapsed back into their cubes, but they were here now; crouched at the edge of the woods, watching the lone brave soul at the checkpoint walk back and forth in guard duty. There was a field that separated the woods from the checkpoint, and in this still-ongoing storm, it was hard to even see what was happening at the checkpoint. Fortunately, the lone sentry was holding a lantern and there was another one hanging off of some area where he could only presume to be the guard house at this checkpoint.

“Buildings have changed, but yeah... still miserable and still as strange smelling as it is now,” Carrie answered. “So what's the plan, boss?”

Caleb's eyes shifted beyond his descendant to peer over her head, focusing on the barely visible helmeted head of Tallmadge. Due to the darkness of night, along with the layer of snow that covered their uniforms, he could barely see or identify the three other future-people. Carrie was outfitted in her Continental uniform, but even that outfit was dark enough that she could blend in with the heavily shadowed areas of the woods.

“We're going to ambush those at the gate, steal their uniforms and disguise ourselves. If Director Andre or his deputy are in the town, I do not want either of them or any other potential British or Britannian spies to know that we're here,” Tallmadge answered. “On my mark, we move. The storm will cover our advance at full spring. Carrie will take down the sentry, Brewster, you're on watch, Kelly and Carter will help me take the guard house. No killing them.”

“Copy,” he heard Carrie, along with the other two soldiers under Tallmadge's command curtly answer.

“All righty then,” he murmured his acknowledgment as he lifted himself up to a half-crouch, mirroring the same stance as the others had taken. As excited as he was to partake in his first time truly working with the future-people, that excitement was severely tempered by the fact that he was worried about Ben. While Tallmadge had not shown any other signs, or at least clear signs of being affected by whatever was happening to Ben, there was a sense of grave urgency that drove the man to push all of them past their limits to get to the city in such dangerous conditions.

“Go!” he heard Tallmadge order after a moment.

Grabbing the fence, he vaulted over it, just as the others did too, and forced his frozen legs to push through the snow. With his long coat, boots, and trousers heavy and encased in thin sheets of ice, it took most of his strength just to keep up with the others, never mind that his future-rifle seemed to be fused to the back of his jacket in a block of ice covering the bundling cloth. To his ears, even with the winds blowing and whipping up a blinding flurry of snow, it seemed that their advance across the field was quite loud and rowdy, but as they got closer to the guardhouse and the lone sentry, he saw the sentry turn towards east, seemingly trying to peer into the darkness.

Caleb watched, half-impressed by the sheer madness that governed his descendant as she plowed straight into the sentry, knocking him into the snow-covered ground. The lantern that the sentry carried flew from his hands and before it hit the ground, Caleb managed to scoop it up. The loud crack and echo of the guardhouse door being kicked in by Tallmadge and the other two soldiers snapped through the air. He could hear grunts and shouts come from the guardhouse, but moments later, those inside fell silent.

Together, he and Carrie hauled the unconscious sentry to the guardhouse, but just as they nearly tugged the body all the way in, Caleb thought he saw someone coming. “Oy!” he said, catching the attention of the soldiers who were still in the midst of stripping the guardsmen of their uniforms.

“Carrie, intercept,” Tallmadge ordered.

“Huh,” he said as the lone person came closer, hunching over slightly as if it would keep him warm from the cold breeze while carrying a lantern that barely illuminated his path. “I think I recognize him.”

Indeed there was truth to his words, for just the way the man was walking, even though hunched over, was a little odd, but as he exited the guardhouse with his own lantern in hand, he couldn't help but crinkle his eyes slightly in delight. “Hey,” he casually called out, despite the cold that nipped at him, “been a while, eh?”

He caught the man's attention, and as the man brought his own lantern closer to his face, Caleb approached and nodded slightly to himself – the man was an acquaintance of his from his whaling days. “Caleb Brewster? What--”

The man did not get to finish his question as Carrie suddenly appeared behind him, pressing her matte-black rifle against the side of the man's head. “Sorry, mate,” he apologized, shrugging slightly. “But you're definitely here at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Jesus Christ, what did I do to deserve this?!” the man muttered. “First General Greene interrogates me as if I were a criminal, and now you and... oh dear... I'm going to lose my commission because of this...”

Caleb turned back to see Tallmadge and the others emerge from the guardhouse, dressed in the ill-fitting uniforms of the Continental soldiers they had knocked out. It was not that the uniforms were so tight on the three that skin was peeking through folds, it was in fact, the opposite – the uniforms were a little too large and baggy for all three of them. Caleb could only presume that those doing checkpoint duty did not have much opportunity to walk around a lot and mainly lounged within their warm guardhouse or loitered in the area.

“Major Tallmadge?” the man questioned after a moment.

“Not the one you know... Lieutenant,” Tallmadge answered in a crisp tone, eyes straying slightly to the epaulet on the man's shoulder.

“Not the one... what?”

“Creighton,” he interfered, feeling slightly guilty that an acquaintance of his was most likely going to have his career ruined by him... again. He stepped up and draping a hand around the man's shoulders as Carrie stepped back. “Stephen, mate... let me tell you something. Since it seems that you're having some trouble with General Greene, I can help you there. Instead of having this officer--” he gestured towards Tallmadge who had a nonchalant look about him “--knock you out like the others, how about you take us to get some weapons, and I'll put in a good word for you with old Georgie.”

“What?!” Creighton hissed, looking quite offended. “I'm not risking my life or career for you again, Brewster!”

“Brewster--” Tallmadge began, but Caleb held up a hand to stop him from speaking any further, surprising himself slightly when the gesture actually worked.

“Look, I'm looking for my friend, a Major Ben Tallmadge. You've obviously seen him before... no not that guy. He's not the Ben Tallmadge you know. He and three other friends of mine are missing. You either help us, or I knock you out right here and now and your career will be ruined.”

“Okay, okay, I'll help!” the man said, shaking himself out of Caleb's 'friendly' arm. “Come on, I know a guy who makes the best swords in Philadelphia.”

“Atta boy.”

“You're such an arsehole, Brewster.”

~~~

The area where the young lieutenant had taken them was not the most expected of places, for it was near papermills. But the building was quite distinct and stood out among the mills, making it quite an identifiable landmark for any person looking to successfully sell their wares. As they approached he pulled out a small knife and closed the distances to Creighton, eliciting a small gasp of indignant surprise from the man.

It was only because he did not want any surprises that the lieutenant might try to pull while trying to acquire the necessary weapons that he held the man at knife point. Too many things could go wrong now, especially with so many unknown factors in the city that was potentially rife with enemies. Together, the two of them stopped at the front entrance of the blacksmith's shop.

“Now knock on the door,” he whispered, pressing the tip of his blade a little further into Creighton's side; enough to pierce his jacket, but not enough to pierce skin just yet.

“Jesus, Brewster, I will,” Creighton hissed, “no need for threats.” A moment later, he saw and heard the man rap quite sharply on the door. For a few long moments, Caleb did not hear a sound coming from the blacksmith's shop but seconds later, there was something shuffling behind the door before the creak and snap of metal locks was heard. The door open, and just as Creighton managed to say, “Sorry for the late night disturbance Austin, but--”

The officer was roughly pushed in not only by Caleb, but the other four, and just as a cry of alarm sounded from the unsuspecting blacksmith, the door to the shop was shut and he heard Tallmadge say, “Shut up and do as we say, and we won't hurt both of you boys.”

“What in God's name--”

“Shut up,” Tallmadge repeated, leveling his rifle at the blacksmith, as Caleb saw him quickly wave a couple of hand signals to the others to fan out and cover the entire shop. As dark as it was in the shop, there was still the burning embers of a dying down forge that gave the area some light. He sheathed his dagger and was about to offer up and apology towards Creighton and the blacksmith who had been pushed into the center of the shop when Tallmadge suddenly said, “We know you're there. Show yourselves.”

He gave Tallmadge a puzzled frown but his unspoken question was answered when not a moment later, two people were shoved out of an adjacent area in the workshop. Both had their hands up and were being prodded by the rifles of the other two, but in the dying ember firelight, Caleb thought he recognized one of the two.

“Major Tallmadge?” the young man being prodded into the workshop questioned.

At the same time, Caleb said, “Hattersfield?”

“Caleb? Stephen?” the same young man exclaimed as Caleb's utterance of his surname drew his attention away from Tallmadge and onto Caleb and the checkpoint officer.

“Oh great,” he heard Tallmadge say, “Looks like everyone knows each other. Good. This will make life so much easier.”

“Sir,” Carrie spoke up, completing the sweep, “All clear.”

“Weapons down,” Tallmadge said, and Caleb breathed a short sigh of relief as he heard the faint whining sound of not only Tallmadge's weapon but the others in the room, being let go. Removing his hands from his rifle, he let it hang off the strap as he heard Tallmadge say, “Can we get some light in here?”

“No,” the blacksmith immediately said, offense coloring his tone, even though he had lowered his raised hands of surrender. “This is my shop! Just who in God's name are you and what do you want?”

“Um, sir, Major Tallmadge sir... you were reported missing...”

“Oh, was I?” Tallmadge answered in a blasé tone.

At the same time, Caleb heard Creighton answer, “That's not Major Tallmadge, James... at least not the one I think you've met before?”

Seeing that this was going to go no where, and that being a right ass seemed to govern Tallmadge's current mindset, he decided to intervene and stepped into the circle that had formed. “All right, all right,” he said, raising his hands slightly to wave everyone down to silence. “Look, sorry for the invasion, but we really need some swords right now. We're looking for four of our friends, and it looks like you guys have met at least one of them. We're just going to borrow your swords, find our friends and be on our way, yeah?”

“Or you know... you could ask them for help too,” Creighton quipped, shrugging slightly. “Tallmadge isn't the only one that General Greene has been searching for--”

“Wait, you're searching for Lady Samantha and Mr. Sackett too?” the blacksmith interrupted.

“So much for your intervention,” he heard Tallmadge murmur to him before taking a step forward and in an authoritative tone, stated, “Would everyone please just shut up for one minute?”

The booming quality, command, and force behind the tone caused everyone else in the room to fall silent, turning their heads towards the officer. It was so different, so strange watching the man who possessed an eerie likeness of his best friend, shutting down all forms of passive resistance and arguments with just a few words. “Thank you,” Tallmadge said after a moment. “Light the candles, Mr...”

“Roe,” the blacksmith stated. “Austin Roe. You have no right--”

“We're not going to be here long, Mr. Roe,” Tallmadge answered. “We just have a common goal right now, and we're not going to impose upon your hospitality. Light the candles and illuminate this area. Let's see who we're working with, yeah?”

“Some horseshite of a hospitality you're showing, whoever you are,” Caleb heard Hattersfield, if he remembered correctly, and if his eyes in the dimness of the shop was not deceiving him. “Can't believe you're Continental soldiers...”

“We're not,” Tallmadge answered as Caleb watched Roe walk around and start lighting the candles to give the workshop more light. As soon as the blacksmith was done, Caleb saw the four future-soldiers remove their tricorns from their heads, revealing their faces. “Lieutenant Caleb Brewster, you seem to know,” Tallmadge said, gesturing to him. “These are my associates, Lieutenant Carrie Brewster, Corporal Meredith Kelly, and Corporal Juan Carter. I am Major Benjamin S. Tallmadge, and to simply put it, with the exception of Caleb and Lieutenant Creighton here, the rest of us are not from your era. We're searching for four of our agents and friends: Major Benjamin Tallmadge, Mr. Nathaniel Sackett, Agent Samantha Tallmadge, and Agent Natalie Sackett.”

“I think I've had way too much to drink tonight,” the young man, whom Caleb was most definitely sure was someone he recognized, namely a certain James Hattersfield formerly of the employ on a privateer, said. “Whatever shite excuse this is, my sister and I have to report back to General Greene. Kill us and you have more than the Governor-General of Philadelphia to contend to.”

“Oy, Hattersfield,” he called out, taking a step forward before anyone else could, but was stopped when Creighton held up a hand to prevent him from approaching any further.

“I was just at the General's residence, James,” Creighton said. “He was asking all of us checkpoint officers about Major Tallmadge, the foreigner, along with Miss Tallmadge, and Mr. Sackett being missing. Now I don't know what the hell is happening, but I know in my gut that these people--” the officer jerked a thumb back towards them “--have every intention of helping search for them.” The officer paused for a moment and glanced over at the blacksmith, saying, “Austin, you said you needed help in searching for Miss Tallmadge? I think these people are our best bet.”

“Wait, foreign officer?” Tallmadge interrupted before Roe could get a word out.

“Yeah,” Creighton answered, turning slightly towards them. “Prussian officer named von Anhalt-something-something... I don't know... name was hard to pronounce, even on paper.”

“ Friederik von Anhalt-Zerbst-Dornburg,” the young woman, most likely of relation to James Hattersfield, given that they had the same eye color and nose structure from what Caleb could tell, quietly spoke up.

“Yes,” Creighton answered, frowning.

“He, is actually a she,” the young woman said. “Disguised in a similar manner as I. Her name is actually Natalya Petrova, special envoy of Her Imperial Highness of Russia, Yekaterina Alexeyevna.”

“Ah, her usual alias then,” Tallmadge said. “Or Agent Natalie Sackett as we know her. Thank you, Miss...?”

“Leigh Hattersfield,” she answered, curtsying slightly, before appending her introduction with a, “sir.”

Despite the tension that still hung in the air, Caleb found it slightly amusing to see that her brother, James, step slightly in front of his sister, as if protecting her from Tallmadge's nonexistent amorous advances. If memory served him correctly, even before he and Ben had departed from Setauket on their own journeys in the world before the outbreak of war, it seemed that whatever charm or looks that graced the Tallmadge lineage was still quite strong. He remembered seeing the numerous girls in Setauket fluttering their eyes or demurring whenever Ben was around – even though his best friend was quite oblivious to the attention.

“So you're the help then?” Roe asked after a moment of silence, though it sounded more doubtful than a confident statement of sorts.

“Yes.”

“And you four,” the blacksmith continued, gesturing to Tallmadge and the others as Caleb deliberately took a step away from the other four so that the poor, sorely confused man would know that he was not hallucinating too much. “Are from the _future_?”

“Nearly 400 years, to be precise,” Tallmadge said in a simple tone, though Caleb suspected that the man was getting a bit impatient of answering such questions.

“Look,” he said, raising a hand to catch the blacksmith's attention. “Can we just leave it at that, yeah? We're the help you need, and you're the weapons provider we need.” He glanced over at Creighton and asked, “Help me here, Creighton?”

He saw the man hesitate for a second before saying, “Not counting what you just did you me, the last time I 'helped' you, James and I ended up on watch and watch before our captain kicked us to shore. You ruined our careers.”

“And profits,” Hattersfield quipped.

“Jesus, fine,” he said, holding his hands up in a surrendering gesture, knowing that it was only because of the current crisis that he was not being accosted by the two former sailors.

“And what are those?” Roe asked, bringing them back to the matter at hand as the blacksmith pointed to the rifles the five of them carried.

“Rifles, advanced ones,” Tallmadge answered. “But we're trying to keep a low profile and if we use these, then potential enemies within the city may know that we're here. If those enemies have captured the four we're looking for, then they may be killed. Hence our need for swords... Lieutenant Creighton said that you're the best blacksmith in town.”

“Do you even know where the four are being held?”

“Do you?” Carrie asked, jumping into the discussion. “Because it looks like Thing One and Thing Two there may know something.”

“T-thing-what?” Roe asked, baffled.

“We may know, but it could also be a ruse and paranoia by a Magistrate who values his own life a little more than the average citizen of Philadelphia,” Hattersfield said, looking slightly offended. “And my sister and I do have names.”

“Yeah, but it's easier calling you Thing One and Thing Two,” Carrie answered. “Hattersfield One and Hattersfield Two is a bit of a mouthful.”

“Calm down, peoples,” Tallmadge interrupted. “We're all in this together, and it looks like we're all working together for now. Let's not bicker and argue the extraneous details right now. We have four people missing and we all want to find them. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Roe answered.

“Agreed,” Creighton also said as the two Hattersfield siblings nodded, remaining silent.

“James, Leigh, lets get the map out,” Roe said, turning slightly towards the siblings. “Perhaps these... people... may be more well versed in whatever soldiering they do to help us investigate the Magistrate's house.”

* * *

_Mid-December, 1777_

 

There came a point in time which the body, due to heat loss, would eventually shut down, but being that it was the the 18th century, the word to describe it had not yet been invented. However, having experienced such debilitating symptoms of the cold before, Ben mentally fought his mind to keep himself awake as his body continued to violently shiver from exposure to the cold and damp cellar. Somewhere within that resistance to not succumb to the sweet sweet darkness of unconsciousness that his body wanted, he had lost track of time. It was only when a rather warm cloth that felt incredibly rough against his forehead was pressed there that snapped him awake again.

He gasped, and violently coughed as he felt a gentle hand pat his back, though that pat felt more like a stinging slap than anything gentle. The warm thing was removed from his forehead and he nearly cried out in pain as the chilly air in the cellar brushed against his dampened skin – it forced his eyes open. Blinking back the haze of pain, he blearily looked around, noting that he was still tied tightly to the chair and that he was extremely thirsty... and hungry. He didn't know how long he had been hovering between darkness and waking, but it was long enough that he now, in addition to the pain that Director Andre had inflicted with whatever had been placed inside of him, felt weak from the lack of food and water.

Something heavy was then draped over his shivering body, sending lances of pain shooting throughout his neck and back, along with up and down his arms where the cloth scraped against his bare and extremely sensitive skin. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,” a voice murmured so softly that he thought that he was imagining it.

He was not, as he looked up to see the blurred but still distinctly recognizable face of Peggy Shippen as she stepped back. Not a moment later, she turned away, though Ben was awake enough to catch a glimpse of her remorseful look before she busied herself in trying to drape a cloak of sorts over Samantha.

“Get away from me, bitch,” he heard Samantha growl, causing the woman to pause in her attempt to comfort and warm Samantha up.

“Samantha,” he heard the woman softly plead, “Please...”

“Just go away, bitch. I don't need your fucking sympathy, traitor--”

“My, my,” the voice of Director Andre said from behind him as he heard footsteps approach. “You care for them as if they were people worth caring for. How utterly... provincial. Is that not the word you used to describe your true feelings the day you met these two, Miss Shippen? Hick, unrefined, and certainly not used to the mores that you, your family, and your high-classed friends employ?”

He saw the woman step back and turn to face Andre. Though it hurt for him to turn even his neck to attempt to see the man, he saw fiery indignation burn in the woman's eyes. “Were I to go back and re-experience that day, I and my father would have never made your acquaintance! I'm just glad that my sisters are not here to be your pawns!”

“I can do that, you know,” Andre said, taking a couple of menacing steps forward. “I can alter time again and have you in particular go back to that soiree and have you try to convince your months-younger self to not go down this path... I can also go back in time myself and attempt to intercept the routes that your father has sent your sisters out upon – to ensure that their safe passage to your relatives in Virginia are no longer safe. But then, it would create a paradox, an inexplicable rip in the fabric of time and space that cannot be reconciled. The universe as we know it would collapse.” The Director took a few more steps forward, passing Ben and Samantha, while advancing on her as she fearfully backed away. It was then that Ben noticed that Natalie was missing.

“W-where's my father?”

Andre seemingly ignored the woman's question and instead said, “You. You who convinced General Washington's greatest ally to betray his cause to settle accounts... look at you now. Sniveling in fear, giving comfort and aid to your enemies--”

“They are not my enemies!” she shouted, causing Andre to pause in his advance. “They never were, you Devil of a man! May God have mercy on what little soul--”

“Sir!” a voice shouted from up the cellar stairs, “General Greene is arriving for his appointment with the Judge and his daughter!”

He saw Andre immediately turn from the backhanded strike he was about to inflict on Peggy Shippen and angrily cross the cellar and back up the stairs. A few short, angry but muffled words were exchanged between the man and whatever mercenaries or soldiers he commanded before footsteps thundered down the cellar stairs. He felt a rather heavy hand land on the back of his chair, spinning it around before he was dragged back to where Samantha was.

Men dressed in Continental uniforms surrounded both him and Samantha and though he tried to fight them off from manhandling him, the serum was still greatly affecting him. He nearly passed out again in pain as a balled up piece of dirty cloth was shoved in his mouth and a belt was tied around his mouth and back of his head to keep him silent. He choked and gagged as the cloth pressed down on his tongue and almost caused him to inadvertently swallow the filthy thing.

The same was done to Samantha and even though she also tried to resist, he could see sweat breakout on her forehead and her eyes bulging out from just the sheer amount of pain she was also feeling. Something small and cylindrical-like was still stuck on the side of her head, but she continued to fight until it was too much for her. As she slumped over in her chair, he feared for a moment that she had died, but then saw the minute up-down movement of her chest.

His attention was diverted away from her when he heard the gasping cry of Shippen as he looked up to see that the Director had forcefully taken the woman by the arm and half-dragged her up the stairs. She and the Director disappeared from his view, and moments later a rather heavy door that led up to the ground floor of the Shippen household was slammed shut. In the silence that fell upon the area, he heard the familiar whine of advanced rifles activate. He glanced up and saw that at least two of the soldiers had their matte-black rifle barrel tips pointed at the top of his head.

_Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death..._ he began to mentally recite the verse, as he looked back down and towards the entrance to the cellar, shivering.

* * *

“Remind me to never, ever leave any of my valuables in sight whenever you guys enter a town, city, village, or farm that I'm living in,” Caleb muttered more to himself than to the others. He double checked the fourth pistol that he had just finished punching the wadding and ball into, before shoving it against the belt that was strapped to the side of his chest until it clipped and sat against his chest.

It was only then that he picked up a flintlock rifle, moved the hammer to half-cock, poured a small amount of powder into the flashpan, closed it before upending the rifle and poured some more gunpowder into the barrel of the rifle. Picking up the wadding and ball that was wrapped within, he stuffed it down the barrel and used the rod to ram it home. He replaced the ramrod and held the ready rifle loosely in his hand just as others finished their own preparations.

He was impatient to go, and it was only because he did not want to start an accidental fire within Philadelphia that he had not already left. It had been more akin to both Tallmadge and Carrie forcibly stopping him from leaving as soon as the Hattersfield twins had stated the supposed location of where they suspected Ben and the others to be held. Carrie had given him an explanation on the fact that in such dry conditions, even with the heavy amount of snow that the city had received thus far, the future rifles were more likely to spark an inferno than flintlocks.

Ben had been last seen approaching and entering the house of renowned Philadelphia Magistrate, Judge Edward Shippen, by the twins. When questioned as to why they were conducting such secretive activities, the twins admitted that they were under orders from General Greene to establish a small network of informants within the city and that the general had been inspired by the rumors of a robust military intelligence network filtering in and out of Morristown – along with who exactly was the Head of Intelligence.

It seemed that Ben and Sackett's plans to establish contacts within Philadelphia and its surroundings paralleled that of Greene, though when Samantha and Sackett had gone missing, it was initially presumed that they were not. Roe had supplemented that fact even he thought that the two had not been missing until the twins had contacted him, with him having been the last person to see either Samantha or Sackett the day before they went missing. Roe's name had also been given to the twins by an innkeeper where the four had briefly stayed before the twins had started to closely investigate the Magistrate's house.

Upon hearing Roe defend himself quite vehemently, Caleb was quite sure that the blacksmith had nothing to do with the disappearance of the four. There was something in the emotional quality of Roe's tone that even he had picked up. It had taken him a moment to realize that the blacksmith had fallen in love with Samantha, except that it was a visage of Samantha that wasn't true. It also had not escaped his notice that Carrie had shoved her elbow against Tallmadge's side – Caleb had also seen Tallmadge glower at the realization of Roe's affections for Samantha. Fortunately, or unfortunately, Roe had been none the wiser, or the man had just ignored them.

“Move out,” he heard Tallmadge finally order and was already out of the door and hurrying down the streets when the others emerged.

It had been entirely coincidental, but the timing of the plan was just too good of an opportunity to pass up. A plan had been quickly formed using the information that the Hattersfield twins had brought back on suspicious activities happening within Judge Shippen's house – activities that had been spied via the Shippen house's ground-level windows by the twins. General Greene had already made an appointment to dine with the Judge and youngest daughter for matters that did not pertain to the missing people. Using that appointment, it had been the twins who informed the general of the suspicions, though they had reported back that Greene was reluctant to partake in the plan to search for the four within the house. That reluctance was borne out of dependence on speculation and assumptions about Judge Shippen that were much too doubtful should the worse happen. Somehow the twins had convinced the general to at least allow civilians who had no residency within Philadelphia to undertake in the mission, thereby giving the General a rather robust excuse of having not known the wiser, should the searching people get caught.

Caleb and the others had not been introduced to the general, having only heard of the agreement to the plan by proxy from the twins. Still, because of what had been agreed upon, it was up to him, Carrie, Tallmadge, and the other two of Tallmadge's group to carry out the mission. Roe had supplied mainly him with small knives and daggers of varying degrees, since it seemed that every person of the future-army was armed with quite an assortment of knives and daggers themselves. Caleb had not forgotten just how much small bladed weaponry the boys had found upon Natalie and Carrie when the two had first arrived.

The blacksmith was also to be their lookout, while Creighton and the twins were to accompany Greene to Judge Shippen's house and if necessary, protect him. While Greene and the Judge entertained, they would attempt to enter the house via a potential tunnel that was connected to the Shippen house, which had been told to them by Leigh Hattersfield. It had been made apparent to them that the Hattersfield twins were more than they seemed, and though it had not been pointed out during the planning, Caleb suspected that the twins were or had possibly been thieves. If the twins were thieves, it certainly explained how the two were able to procure so many pistols and rifles on such short notice, but he wasn't about to deny himself such a bounty.

Slowing down as he approached the alleyway that would give them a direct view on the Shippen house, he slung the rifle across his back, and pulled out two pistols. He peeked out from the alleyway and saw the enormous house sitting as silent as could be. With the snow still falling, it was hard to make out if there were any guards surrounding the place much less looking outside the windows.

He heard someone shift on the ground and glanced down to see his descendant pulling out a small black spyglass-like object, a binocular, he had learned its name, and peer through it. “It's clear, at least on the first and second floor,” he heard her mutter. “But then again, if Judge Shippen wanted to maintain a sense of normalcy, he wouldn't post visible guards – not if he wanted to show that he was a Patriot. But there's too many rooms that are too dark. I would have thought there would be more servants milling about and lighting rooms up. Something's strange.”

“Brewsters-two,” he heard Tallmadge state in a whisper as he glanced back up towards the house before looking over to where Ben's counterpart and the other two were. “Take the underground passage. Us three will provide the distraction... we're going to stage a home robbery of sorts.”

“Sir,” Carrie spoke up before the square cloths that Tallmadge and the other two could be tied around the lower-half of their faces. “What if the passage leads no where?”

“I expect you to come back and save our asses too, Brewster,” Tallmadge said. “Heists can't be done correctly without a getaway vehicle in hand.”

“Sir...” she began, then sighed and shook her head. “Nevermind.”

Though Caleb was not sure as to what exactly had transpired, he saw her get up from her crouch, tucking away the binocular and hurry away. Caleb gave a nod towards Tallmadge and the others before following his descendant. When he was sure they were far enough away from the others, he whispered, “Oy, what's going on?”

“Nothing,” she bit out in a rather short tone. “Just the usual stubbornness and bad jokes that seems to posses any person bearing the last name of Tallmadge.”

“Oh,” he said, smiling slightly, “the usual 'I'm being an ass because I can' Tallmadge attitude then.”

“Yeah,” she agreed as he saw her pull out one of her pistols. “Christ he wasn't this bad during our time at the Academy,” she muttered.

“Well, the sooner we get to Benny-boy and the others, the better he'll most likely be,” he reassured her, though he was well aware that it was also more to himself too. “All right,” he said, as they arrived at the area where the Hattersfield twins had indicated a possible entrance into the cellar area of the Shippen house. “Where is this fabled 'secret' entrance?”

Dilapidated stables and husks of various houses that had partially collapsed from disrepair littered the area. Overgrown grass and wheat covered what dirt paths had existed in the area, though a thick coating of snow all but obscured most of it. As he peeked into each structure, putting away one of his pistols to use a free hand to tug at anything that looked like a door of sorts, he could hear Carrie do the same. He had to be careful though, to not tug so hard on various broken cabinets or entrances to make the already shaky structures fall on top of him.

“Caleb!” he heard his counterpart whisper loudly from the far side of the small square, “I think its this one.”

Stepping out of the ruins of the small kitchen of a house that he had been exploring, he hurried over to where she was and saw that she had tugged open a rather large cellar door that had been partially cleared of snow. Peering into it, all he could see was darkness, but saw that Carrie had her binoculars out and was peering into the maw. He knew that they could not risk lighting any candle or torch, lest if there was anyone unfriendly at the end of the potential tunnel, they would see them coming. They would have to navigate the tunnel in pure darkness. Fortunately, some sort of item on the binoculars that Carrie possessed enabled her to see in the darkness. He saw her silently gesture for him to follow, he pulled out his second pistol again and carefully stepped where she stepped as the both descended into the darkness.

It was very damp and wet as the wooden steps gave way to dirt mounds that were shaped like steps. He could occasionally feel his boots squash slightly into the muck, but soon, they were walking on muddy grounds. He tried to stand up to his full height, but hit the back of his head on the ceiling of the low tunnel as he heard Carrie move forward. Crouching as the brief flash of pain washed away, he waited for a moment until he was sure that his descendant had moved forward again before he too continued. It was extremely narrow, as he held up his pistols at an angle and there were times where both of them had to turn to their sides in order to squeeze through.

Ice-cold water dripped down on his head and his clothes as they continued, but soon, he thought he could see some light at the end of the tunnel. With his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw Carrie quietly put the binoculars away before drawing her other pistol. Together, both of them approached the door that barred their way into a lighted cellar. As she stopped to try to find a latch of sorts to hopefully open it without them having to bash it down, there were some large enough cracks for him to peer through.

He could see little, but the shapes and items he saw from the largest of the cracks showed that it was a dimly lit cellar. Casks, dried materials, and even some rather large crates of salted fish and pork lined either side of their immediate entrance. A few sacks of what he could assume as either grain or flour of sorts were further into the room, and he thought he saw movement beyond a brick wall, but he wasn't sure if it was true or just his imagination. However, the fact that the cellar was lit, even by poor light from candles or lanterns told him that there were people down here.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and glanced over to see that Carrie had found the latch of sorts that would enable them to open the door. He saw her holster her pistols before putting her hands on the latch and against the door. Positioning himself as quietly as he could on the side that would open first, he leveled his pistols parallel to the ground and in front of him, ready to charge through and shoot anyone who tried to stop them.

A rather loud thump sounded from above, and though he wasn't sure what was going on, but the voices of those in the cellar cautioned against reacting to the above, and he could hear the leader of whomever was down here tell the others to stand their ground. They had the right place. As the thumps above continued, it was then that Carrie rammed her entire body into the door and forced it open.

Caleb leapt through and just as he emerged, hopping over two low but heavy-looking crates that had been pushed against the door. Turning the corner of the brick wall, he came face to face with the backs of five soldiers dressed in Continental colors. Luck was with him and his counterpart, for Carrie had timed the forcing of the door with whatever was happening upstairs – the sounds had muffled their entrance. However, it didn't escape his notice that though they were lined up in a row, they were holding advanced rifles and that the barrels were pointed at their captives' heads.

“Look at what we have here,” he casually said out loud, catching all of their attentions as they spun around in surprise. As soon as he saw the barrels of the rifles clear the captives' heads, he fired his pistols at two of the nearest guards, dropped the pistols and dove towards another brick column. Rolling up into cover as he pulled out another pistol, he heard another two flintlock pistols discharge as the whine of the advanced rifles started up. Before the whine could translate to the familiar _bzzt_ sound of an unleashed torrent of blue bolts, he peered out from the brick column and fired the pistol at the final guardsman, dropping him like a sack of grain.

Waving away the smoke from the five discharged pistols, the thumps upstairs continued, though they sounded a lot closer and louder than they had been when he and his counterpart had been in the tunnel. Holstering the discharged pistol, he picked up the other two from the ground and also put them away those while seeing Carrie gingerly step over the dead bodies. As the smoke cleared, he saw Ben and Samantha, both of whom had been gagged and tied to chairs.

His main concern was Ben, and he was quite alarmed at just how pale he looked; almost as white as clean bed sheets. He saw Carrie approach and try to shake Samantha awake – she was just as pale-looking as her ancestor. A rather tremendous thump, loud and hard enough to shake silt from the ceiling of the cellar down caused him to look up before glancing over at Carrie. Both of them were concerned as to what exactly was happening upstairs, but they had to get Ben and Samantha out first.

“Hey, Ben,” he said, crouching in front of the chair that his friend was tied to as he saw that the familiar blue coat was haphazardly draped over his shoulders. Ben was shivering, and Caleb managed to clamp down on his anger enough to start loosening the rope around his friend's wrists and ankles. He could see Ben trying to stay awake, but his eye lids were fluttering quite madly enough that he recognized it to be signs of being just a little too cold and exposure to cold that were causing a sense of deliriousness and confusion. It was just like that time when Ben had fallen over the boat during the crossing to Trenton. “Jesus,” he whispered as he glanced over to see that Samantha was showing the same symptoms albeit in a much smaller sense. From his whaling days, he knew that the woman was past the fighting state. She was already suffering from extreme exposure to the cold and her body was nearly giving up in trying to fight back the cold – she was in greater danger than Ben was from dying.

Quickly ungagging Ben, he thought he heard him whimper in pain as he tried to shuck his arms into the jacket, but it was the muffled noise coming from the woman behind him that caused him to stop. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Carrie finish untying Samantha before snatching a large cloth of sorts from the nearest barrel and wrap the woman up in it.

Caleb's attention in freeing Ben was briefly diverted again as he heard wood splinter inwards, accompanied by a rather loud boom coming from above them. Shouts, along with the sound of flintlocks and laser rifle fire poured through the large hole that had been made in the cellar door that led above ground. He drew out his final pistol as he stepped in front of Ben, only to come face to face with the other three of their group and their mad scramble down into the cellar.

None of them were carrying the advanced weaponry, and with the smell of wood and fire burning above their heads, he could only assume that the sounds of the rifles had come from whomever was up there. It had to have been future-soldiers that had somehow been in the employ of Shippen. Short of an attempted robbery distraction, Tallmadge and the other two had unleashed something far worse. The Judge's house was burning down upon them.

“Jesus, sorry Benny,” he muttered as he put away his pistol. Crouching next to Ben, he shucked his friend's arms into the blue jacket and then wrapped his arm around his body. Lifting his friend up as he slung an arm over his own shoulders, he half-dragged his friend back towards the underground entrance, as he heard Tallmadge issuing orders. “Come on, Benny-boy,” he muttered as he glanced over to see Ben's eyes fluttering in pain and deliriousness. “Don't do this to me. Stay awake. Between you and me, I don't want to drag you out like a sack of potatoes...”

“Go! Go! Go!” he heard Tallmadge shout and risked a glance back to see that the three soldiers were still trying to hold back those with the advanced rifles with their flintlocks. Occasionally, a flash of something silver reflecting firelight flew from their hands and shouts of people being struck by small flying blades was heard over the crackle of the house fire. Carrie was slinging one of Samantha's arms around her shoulders, trying to slap her friend awake.

“Okay, Tall-boy,” he said, as they approached the entrance to the underground passage. “You're going to hate me for this, but since you're not waking up--” he grunted as he hefted his friend up and slung him over his shoulder as best as possible. “Christ, you're heavy... but sack of potatoes it is.”

With a rather concentrated effort, he managed to scramble over the crates and into the narrow passageway. He made his way down as quickly as he could without slipping on the muddy ground or smacking Ben's head and swinging limbs against the rocky walls. At the narrower sections, he had to unsling Ben from his shoulders and carry him through like a plank of wood, but fortunately, as he crested the stairs that would take them out of the underground passage and into the cold winter's night, he felt thumps against his back.

Caleb ignored Ben's fists for a moment longer, pushing through the raised cellar doors before stepping over to the side to allow the others through. There was the deep, sharp smell of a fresh fire going on, and in the distance, he could see that something was burning bright red. The distant sound of bells and people shouting for well water echoed through the cold night.

Crouching slightly so that his friend could right himself on his own two feet, he caught Ben's shoulder with a hand as he saw him sway slightly. Pain was clearly etched onto his friend's face, but there was clarity being drawn from that pain that kept Ben awake.

“I'm fine--” Ben hoarsely whispered, momentarily squeezing his eyes shut just as Caleb heard closer shouts echoing underground. He glanced back to see that Samantha and Carrie had also made it out. Samantha, who had still not stirred, was being scooped up now that there was room to carry her in a less awkward fashion.

“Here, Tall-boy,” he said, returning his attention to Ben, removing the flintlock rifle that had been pressed quite painfully against his back. He shoved the weapon into Ben's unsteady and shaking hands, knowing that if there was any other choice, he wouldn't have done that to his friend – but there was no other choice. “And here you go again,” he said, unholstering the fourth and final pistol he carried.

Going over to Carrie, he attempted to take Samantha from her, not wanting to burden her with the weight of just carrying the woman, but she shook her head quite sharply. “Take my weapons,” she stated, turning slightly to give him better access to the flintlock pistols and rifle that she carried. “You're a better shot than I am with these ancient things.”

She was booking no argument, and in this state, he knew better than to question her judgment – she was right in the sense of weaponry and accuracy. “All right,” he said, taking her two pistols and the rifle, “but stay close, yeah?”

“Will do, el-tee,” she agreed, just as he heard footsteps pound on the underground passage's floor and approach the cellar passage entrance.

The crunch of Ben's slow footsteps on the freshly fallen snow on the ground told him that his friend was circling and taking up a position on the other side of Carrie and Samantha. That sound was quickly drowned out when three figures burst out of the cellar doors, with their backs towards him and the others.

“Go!” he heard Tallmadge curtly order as the man gestured for them to continue back towards the blacksmith's shop. He saw Tallmadge and one of his soldiers, Kelly, stop next to the entrance, both reloading their flintlock rifles as quickly as possible.

He wanted to stay and help, but it was the actions of the other soldier under Tallmadge's command, Carter, who had closed the distance to Ben and forcibly turned him around saying, “Come on, sir! We're getting to safe haven!”

Caleb winced at just how much his friend's face scrunched up and wondered just what had been done to him, even though there was no physical sign of wounds. It made his blood boil to see Ben in such agonizing pain, but with no clear line of sight to the people who had hurt his friend, he didn't bother to charge back. That and also Tallmadge and the other soldier had turned from their brief pause at the cellar entrance, with Tallmadge yanking him forward by an arm to keep him from lingering and shooting dead at whomever would emerge next with his rifle.

“Kelly, take point,” Tallmadge ordered as Caleb kept pace with Ben who had glanced back to see his counterpart occasionally stopping to sweep their rear with his rifle. It was only because of just how pale and utterly ill Ben looked, running beside him, that he did not leave his friend's side to help Tallmadge ensure that they were not followed.

They could not stop and he could only hope that they did not encounter any of the future-soldiers that had been inside of Shippen's house. Their priority was to get to safety, but he wasn't sure if Ben, or Samantha for the matter, would make it. He sent up a quick prayer to God, hoping that though he had not spoke to the Lord and Savior, God would have mercy on them.

* * *

_Morning...a few days later..._

 

Warmth like he had not felt in such a long time enveloped him as he woke up and found himself wrapped up in thick woolen blankets. Coughing as cold air hit his lungs, he tried to clear his throat as best as possible, but it felt more like swallowing needles than anything else. Blinking the fuzziness from his eyes, he shifted slightly within the cocoon of warmth, surprised that he was not feeling any pain lancing through his skin. Last he remembered was reciting the Psalm verse...

“Hey, looks like he lives.”

As his coughs subsided, Ben glanced up to see a rather fuzzy rendition of a familiar bearded face peering over at him. As he continued to blink and slowly wiggle himself out of the blankets, that face resolved into Caleb. “W-what day is it? Where am I?”

“December 21st, Tall-boy,” Caleb answered, giving him a wide smile. “And... you're in the house, or rather, shop of one of Philadelphia's finest blacksmiths, Mr. Austin Roe.”

“H-how?”

He saw Caleb laugh and grin before saying, “We saved your bacon, Tall-boy. Yours and Samantha.”

“Samantha's safe?” he asked. “And who's 'we'?”

“Aye. She's resting in the guest room across the hall.”

“What about Andre. Director Andre?” he immediately asked as the memories of that horrific night or nights of torture via the future Intelligence Director's concoction of pain-- no, there was something even more pressing than the Director. “Washington!” he said, kicking and throwing the blankets off of himself as the cool air hit him and sent the fog of sleep away.

“Oy, Ben!” he heard Caleb shout as he quickly swung off the bed and stumbled down through unfamiliar halls until he got to the stairs. Dizziness swam across his vision, but the urge and need to tell General Greene, to tell someone who could get word to Morristown about the danger that Washington and others of his command staff were in was greater than whatever he was afflicted with.

Clambering down the stairs, he tried to stop the dry coughs from wracking him as he leaned against the railing of the stairway for a moment. His throat and chest hurt, and his lungs felt like they were on fire, but the needle-like sensation across his skin was gone – whatever Andre had depressed into him was no longer affecting him. Footsteps approached, and he looked up to see the mirror image of himself, except with a rather bushy, wheat-colored but neatly trimmed beard staring back at him. “Washington,” he repeated quite hoarsely. “If you're here, that means Andre's plan--” he coughed again “--worked.”

“Jesus, Ben,” he heard Caleb exclaim as he heard his friend thunder down the stairs. “You trying to kill yourself?”

“No,” he answered, trying to clear his throat.

“Let's get you to somewhere warmer than here,” he heard Tallmadge say, taking him by the arm and trying to guide him to another room within the house...shop, wherever he was.

“Stop,” he said, trying to shake his arm out of the vice-like grip that his counterpart had on him.

“No, sir,” Tallmadge quietly growled with intensity that he thought not possible. “You need to stop trying to kill yourself and also stop being a stubborn asshole. You and Samantha were poisoned and both of you need to rest, sir. If you're not going to sleep, then at least sit.”

Despite trying to protest, it seemed that Caleb was squarely on the side of his counterpart's arguments, for both of them nearly frog-marched him into the actual blacksmith shop proper, where it was doubly warm – much warmer than he had been while wrapped in the blankets. The forge was active, but there was nothing being produced at the moment. However, several people that he recognized, were sitting around a small table that seemed to have been moved from another room and into this warm area.

It was then that Ben realized that his feet were completely bare as he stepped into the coarse sanded floor of the shop... and that he was only wearing his shirt and breeches. His hair was untied, and he could most definitely feel a few days worth of stubble covering his lower jaw. While he prided himself on maintaining a proper form of dressage in front of company, there was no going back now, and even though there were two – no three – women present, he felt slightly ashamed at his physical appearance before them.

Samantha was not among the women, but Brewster, Greene's thief agent Leigh Hattersfield, and an unknown woman with her hair tied up into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, were present. However, it seemed that those gathered, including another soldier with dark skin and close-cropped hair – definitely one under Tallmadge's command – along with Greene's other thief agent James Hattersfield, and strangely enough, the checkpoint officer Lieutenant Creighton had been discussing something of importance when he, Caleb, and Tallmadge entered.

It was also then that he realized that all of them, including the future-people, were wearing clothing that was of this era. Brewster and Tallmadge's female soldier were wearing men's clothes. Leigh Hattersfield was wearing her disguise. No one was wearing BDUs or any strange articles of clothing. All of them looked like they belong here, blended among the crowds, except for Creighton who wore the blue Continental uniform jacket with red lapel and wrist trims.

“Sirs,” Creighton greeted, immediately getting up and offering his seat to Ben. Strange as it felt to be on the receiving end of such a generous gesture, for it echoed what he had done for General Arnold those months ago, Ben gratefully took the seat as the Lieutenant went into another room to fetch two more chairs. A steaming mug of coffee was poured for him by the female half of the Hattersfield twins, and he took it while nodding his thanks.

“I'll be right back,” Caleb said as Tallmadge sat in the chair next to Ben, who carefully sipped the coffee, “Seems that Benny-boy here forgot his boots.”

“Before we continue this debrief,” Brewster spoke up as Caleb left and Creighton reentered, bearing two chairs. “Can I just say damn, you guys do look like identical twins, especially with the period outfits...even though one of you is scruffier-looking than the other.”

Ben glanced over towards his counterpart, who had done the same, and while it was purely coincidence, both of them shrugged at the same time. The gesture, however, caused Brewster and the other two soldiers to laugh.

“So,” Tallmadge said after a moment, “what news, sir?”

“Washington,” he stated, placing the mug back down. “You need to get one of your people or go yourself to warn him, Tallmadge. Director Andre, your John Andre, specifically set a trap using Samantha and Mr. Sackett--” he coughed and took another sip of his coffee “--to lure Natalie and I here. Then he used me to lure you and Caleb here. The threat we uncovered is real! He means to spring agents within Morristown to assassinate the general and others!”

“I left three of my people at Morristown,” Tallmadge stated. “Unfortunately, there's over twelve inches of snow within and surrounding the city and possibly even more outside and leading to Morristown. The nor'easter that slammed through the area has cut off all travel. Heavy and thick ice-coated tree limbs have fallen on a few buildings here, and the fire that was started at Judge Shippen's house and spread through at least three blocks has just been contained. We caught a glimpse of Andre during our assault on the house, but he is missing. As are the judge and his daughter.”

“Sir, General Greene has also ordered us at the checkpoints to be on the lookout for them,” Creighton supplied, “but we have not seen any of them so far.”

Ben saw his counterpart nod slightly at the words before continuing, “However, the Director's mercenaries are still present and still causing chaos within the city. Doesn't help that they're dressed in Continental uniforms. With soldiers accusing each other of being traitors and witch hunts starting over the smallest of squabbles, it makes it doubly hard for us to search for Natalie and Mr. Sackett. Martial law has been fully implemented within the city, as Greene and what few men he trusts try to root out who the real traitors are. Even if we could obtain permission to leave, our robotic horses would run out of power before we can get near Morristown – we can only hope that Lieutenant Spiers and the other two are vigilant.”

“On the other hand, that means that if Director Andre left instructions to his agents within the camp, he won't get confirmation of success or not... not until the snow melts. He's just as stuck as we are,” Brewster spoke up just as Caleb ambled in with the stockings and boots and handed the items to Ben.

“If Andre's assassins are anything like a certain wetwork operator that I know,” Tallmadge said as Ben put on his stockings and boots, “then they won't strike until they're certain they can get in and out without being caught.”

“Then General Greene must also be informed,” he insisted, looking over towards the Hattersfield twins. It was frustrating to hear that not only civil unrest was present in the city, messages and riders could not easily be sent. He could only imagine how morale was among the men garrisoned in the city and briefly ground his teeth together at just how much chaos Director Andre had caused with such a simple implementation of traitors within the ranks.

Though he heard the confidence within his counterpart's tone about the three future soldiers being left at Morristown, he did not completely share in that confidence. He knew that the only way he could be sure that Washington and the others were unharmed was to return to the town himself. “It's not just Washington who is in danger, but every commander we have in Morristown and outside of it,” he said after a moment.

“We'll do it, sir,” James answered, but before the young man could continue, there was a rapid series of knocks at the door to the blacksmith's shop.

Silence immediately fell upon all of them, as Ben rose with the others, feeling his counterpart push him back towards a small adjacent room with an outstretched arm. Rapid hand waving by his counterpart towards others indicated what should be done as he saw all of them withdraw flintlock pistols from their sides. The Hattersfield twins had melted into the shadows of the shop proper, hiding in corners that he could barely see them in, while Creighton had taken up position next to the shop's door, ready to immediately shoot any threatening intruders. Tallmadge's soldiers had also slipped into the shadows near where they had been sitting, while Tallmadge himself had joined him in the kitchen. Both Tallmadge and Brewster were standing on either side of the partially closed door, pistols out, while Caleb had pulled him back further.

“Just a moment!” he heard a voice shout and moments later, heard footsteps descend from the second floor. He caught a glimpse of a man that he did not recognize, but given the circumstances, he could only assume that this man was the blacksmith, Austin Roe. He heard Roe unlatch the bolt on the door before it creaked open, bringing a fresh wave of cold into the shop. Even though he was in another room, that cold air still seeped through, but it was the next words out of Roe's mouth that startled him. “Miss Shippen?”

He heard the soft clicks of hammers being draw back to full cock from the flintlocks that his friends held, and for a moment he felt utterly naked – he had no weapon. As he cast his eyes around the kitchen, seeing that there were only pots, pans, plates—there! He grabbed the butcher's knife off of a small stool and held it loosely by his side.

“Please, Mr. Roe,” he heard Shippen say, her voice pleadingly soft and full of regret. “Please, I do not mean you any harm.”

“Miss Shippen, I do not understand what you mean,” Roe answered in a tone that almost had Ben convinced that the man actually did not understand what was going on. Almost. It was the actions of his counterpart that shattered the illusion as Ben saw him slip out of the kitchen, closing the door tightly behind him. Brewster had placed a hand out to prevent him from following as Caleb rushed to the door and took up the vacant spot. Ben pushed Brewster's hand away but lingered near the door.

Through the slit between the door and frame, he saw Tallmadge approach, stating in a cold, angry tone, “Search parties have been looking all over the city for you, Miss Shippen. Pray do tell where have you been?”

There was a moment's pause before Shippen nervously answered, “You're not Major Tallmadge... who are you?”

“That's irrelevant, Miss Shippen,” Tallmadge dismissively answered. “Where are Natalie and Nathaniel Sackett? Where's Andre and what does he--”

An enormous explosion was heard from the second floor, and all thoughts of safety and caution fled Ben's mind as he realized that Shippen's appearance was merely a distraction. The Director or the soldiers under his employ were attempting to take Samantha from wherever she was resting on the second floor. Yanking the door open, he, along with Caleb briefly dashed into the shop before making a sharp turn and disappearing further into the living quarters portion. He took the stairs two at a time, hearing shouts behind him to keep Shippen from fleeing. Brewster was not far behind as he reached the apex of the stairs and small hall and immediately tried to open the other room's door. It wouldn't budge, though Caleb immediately shoved him back a bit before discharging his flintlock at the doorknob. It blew a jagged hole into the door, as his friend then rather viciously kicked it open.

However, it was too late for them to come to Samantha's rescue; there was a rather enormous hole where there had been a window and wall, and bed sheets were fluttering in the ice-cold breeze that carried snow and linger gunpowder smoke into the room. The last of Andre's soldiers were escaping through the enormous hole, but Ben immediately threw his butcher's knife towards the nearest enemy soldier. His aim was off, and merely nicked the soldier in his arm, but it did knock the man off balance as he jumped off the ledge and towards an adjacent rooftop.

Just as he, Brewster, and Caleb reached the hole's edge, he saw the injured soldier land quite painfully on another rooftop ledge before scrambling up and running away. Brewster tried to take a shot at the soldier, but missed, and cursed quite loudly. Several other soldiers were running across rooftops further ahead while others were sprinting away on the streets; all of them going in different directions and carrying something large and bundled. Frustration and anger filled him; there was no telling which soldier was carrying Samantha.

Something else slammed into the rooftop next to the blacksmith's shop before Ben could step away, but before any of them could bring their arms to bear, it was Leigh Hattersfield who peeked in. The thief silently shook her head, both in apology and also in frustration as Ben silently held out a hand for her to take and climb back in. She accepted it and he pulled her in, knowing that she and her brother had most likely tried to utilize their skills and take a faster route to intercept the soldiers, but failed. He did not blame her for their lack of success.

He only blamed himself for such a mess that had been rendered. He had put his agents and civilians in danger with his reckless quest to get answers. Andre had read him like a child's fairy tale and predicted his actions with perfect analysis, whereas he knew next to nothing about the man from the future. His incompetence, his too cautious of a nature in not pressing for more information about the dangerous future-people, especially of Major Andre's counterpart was what caused this. He didn't fully immerse himself into the strange world that governed their actions now because he was too afraid of the consequences when he should have seen that the consequences, the necessity of preserving 'history' was no longer present.

“Goddammit,” he quietly cursed, barely caring that he had used the Lord's name in vain.

He was angry, at himself and at what fate and faith had brought upon him and his friends. Washington and the other generals were in danger of being assassinated, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He didn't even know who the assassins were. Abe, Anna, and other agents within New York were surely going to be killed by his inability in trying to protect them, for Britannia forces most likely knew of their presence within the city. Again, there was nothing he could do to save them. Sackett, Samantha, and Natalie – his heart constricted tightly at the thought of her – nothing... nothing he could do--

“That bitch is going to tell me where Andre's taken Sam,” he heard Brewster growl, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“No,” he immediately said, grasping her arm to prevent her from stalking away. “She'll tell all of us. We question her...properly.”

Brewster's furious, piercing gaze that she threw towards him briefly startled him, but as Caleb stepped up to the other side of her and gently took her away, Ben let go of her arm. Despite what had happened along with frustration chipping away at him for the mess they were now in, he was still first and foremost an officer of the Continental Army. There were rules he still had to adhere to, and he was not going to let the future-people run him roughshod with their strange ways. He had enough of that.

Exiting the ruined room, he descended the stairs and entered the shop. Caleb and the others followed in his wake, and he was glad to see that the rest of those within the shop were unhurt. Shippen was sitting at the table that they had vacated earlier, with the two soldiers under Tallmadge's command pointing their matte-black rifles at her, while the blacksmith was sitting across from her as Creighton tightened the rope that bound her wrists together. Tallmadge and the other Hattersfield thief were missing.

“Her father's being held hostage by this Director John Andre fellow, sir,” he heard Creighton say, catching the man's eyes.

Before he could acknowledge the fact, there was a rather loud bang upon the front door. He saw Roe vacate the seat and watched the blacksmith stroll over to unlatch and open the door. Cold poured into the shop, along with a sprinkling of snow that quickly melted into the floor as Tallmadge and the thief forcibly dragged in a soldier wearing Continental colors.

“Caught one,” Tallmadge curtly said as Roe closed the door. “Not the one who kidnapped Sammie though.”

They dragged the unconscious soldier across the floor and almost threw the man into the base of the forge. Save for Shippen's cry of alarm in the face of such brutality, no one else in the shop made a noise. Ben could not help but feel a small sense of satisfaction at just how roughly the soldier was treated, but his better judgment immediately clamped down upon that feeling – he was no savage, and he most definitely did not want to repeat what had happened in Connecticut last year.

“I apologize for the actions that you've witnessed thus far, Miss Shippen,” he politely said as he took the seat that Roe vacated, drawing the woman's attention away and back onto him. Considering her demeanor, the woman certainly did not deserve to see such unsightly things – she was just as a victim as he was in the scheme of things. However, that did not completely absolve her of what she had done to him and the others. Still, he had just enough patience to extend a small bit of mercy towards her... but only if she was willing to cooperate.

“Please tell us what we want to know and I may negotiate for clemency in your sentence,” he said.

“Sir--” Brewster spoke up, but immediately fell silent as he angrily glanced back at her. He understood what she, Tallmadge, and possibly the other two soldiers were feeling, for it was the same gnawing frustration that he felt too, but he was done with being pulled by both sides. He needed to fight the war the way he knew how, not the way that caused him to stumble and doubt himself.

“Miss Shippen?” he questioned as he looked back towards the frightened woman.

“T-that man,” she began in a timid tone, “h-he said to let you know that he is holding your p-people at a place called Lower Alloways Creek Township in New Jersey. S-specifically at the house of Judge William Hancock. He said that he's willing to negotiate only if you, Lieutenant Brewster, a man bearing the same name as you except with a middle initial of 'S', and a Carrie Brewster also go.”

“Is the township also where his soldiers have taken Samantha?” he asked, knowing where the town was – it had been a part of his patrol route before Rogers and the Queen's Rangers had ambushed them last year. She silently nodded in affirmation to his question. “Thank you, Miss Shippen,” he said.

Pushing his chair slightly back, he got up but before he could take the few steps towards the unconscious soldier, Tallmadge stepped up next to him and grasped his upper left arm rather tightly. “You know it's a trap, sir,” he heard his counterpart whisper rather harshly. “We're a threat to Andre and one of his goals is to destroy the spy rings.”

The intensity in his counterpart's eyes must have matched his own for neither of them flinched as he answered, “They are my agents, Tallmadge. Your cousin is among them. I'm going to save them, with or without your help.”

Seemingly satisfied with the answer, Tallmadge relaxed his grip on his arm, and Ben pushed away the urge to shake it out as he stopped before the unconscious soldier. Looking back up at those gathered, he said, “Hattersfield twins, please take this soldier to General Greene along with my earlier warning. Tallmadge, I'll need your two soldiers to escort Miss Shippen back to Morristown as soon as possible. The fact that not one of Andre's soldiers helped her escape us tells me that the Director has no more use for her or her father.”

“No!” he heard Shippen cry out. It was callous, but it needed to be said. He could not afford to look for Judge Shippen, and the fact that the Director had discarded her at their doorstep with the message meant that she was no longer a threat to any of them. The least he could do now was to bring her to Morristown where perhaps, if she had any knowledge of the Director or his plans, they would be able to utilize such knowledge – he was doubtful of that though. Given how shrewd the Director had played all of them, whatever knowledge she had of the man would most likely be useless.

It was compassion that he had forgotten that existed inside of him that also drove him to get her out of Philadelphia. He did not want to leave her at the mercy of the mob, and since she was no longer one of Andre's agents, perhaps there was also a way he could still save General Arnold from his historical fate... that is if Arnold was still alive and not dead with the rest of the military leadership.

“They are to also bring my information to those at Morristown,” he continued. “Lieutenant Creighton, please secure the necessary armaments and four horses from the quartermaster. I, the Major here, and Brewsters-two will be leaving for Judge Hancock's residence as soon as they're secured.”

“Sir,” Roe spoke up, “I'll help Creighton. They know me there at the quartermasters' shed. We'll get enough and come with you--”

“No,” he interrupted, shaking his head. “The conditions that Director Andre set down are absolute. Aren't they, Miss Shippen?”

“Yes,” she softly said, keeping her head down in shame, unable to meet his eyes. “He's only willing to negotiate for the release of your people with only the four of you present.”

“Stay, Mr. Roe,” Ben said, “and help the others here try to calm the populace down and stop whatever soldiers Andre has left here. We can't afford to lose Philadelphia to men who govern by fear and oppression.”

* * *

_Lower Alloways Creek Township, New Jersey_

 

Pristine snow glittering under the weak winter sunlight decorated rooftops, fence posts, trees, and many other objects as the five of them entered the sleepy and eerily silent town. Not a soul was seen out in the muddy-snow covered streets as Ben guided his horse down the main street which had only seen the tracks of a wagon passing through. Greene had provided information to them that a local militia of 30 men were stationed here, but he could see absolutely no sign of them. Where were the local forces?

Just as he passed the tailor's shop he tugged on the reins of his horse to halt it. At the end of the main road, just before the creek bridge was Judge William Hancock's house. There was no one standing guard at the front of the house, and from what he could see, all curtains facing the road had been drawn close. Dismounting from the horse he took the rein and tied it to a post as he heard the others do the same. Double checking that the two pistols were still secured to his sides, along with his sabre, he took one of the pistols out, but held it in a loose grip in his hand.

Tallmadge's two soldiers, Kelly and Carter, had left for Morristown just as they had begun their journey to this southern New Jersey town. The robotic horses that Tallmadge and the others had ridden in upon had been charged as best as possible, given the weak sunlight and cloudy days, and were now connected to each other to draw and supply power so that they could get to Morristown quickly. Peggy Shippen had also gone with the two soldiers, though Roe had stated that he would at least try to find information about Judge Shippen's fate.

He glanced back to see that the other three were ready, though he did catch Caleb doing a quick spot check on his advanced rifle before tucking it away. Caleb, Tallmadge, and Brewster all carried the rifles. However, in order to not repeat what had happened to Judge Shippen's house during the rescue, none of the three would be using the rifles unless absolutely necessary. All of them were also carrying an assortment of flintlocks, powder, and musket balls. Though they were at a clear disadvantage against any enemy future-soldiers, Ben was hoping that what Peggy had said was true – Director Andre wanted to negotiate.

He took the lead on the walk to the front door of the house, though he was well aware that his counterpart was matching him in pace and walking not quite to the side of him. Stopping before the door, he rapped on it with his free hand as he saw Caleb slip to one side of the door while Brewster had slipped to the other side. Tallmadge was standing behind him, rifle raised at the ready.

There was no answer, but with his light rap on the wood, it was still forceful enough that the door slowly creaked and opened of its own volition. Alarmed, he immediately leveled his pistol at the door as Caleb reached out with a free hand and gently pushed the door open a little further. Brewster slipped in and Ben followed her.

The foyer was quiet and empty, but there was a very distinct scent lingering in the air; of a copper smell that told of blood, gunpowder, and most of all, fecal matter. He stepped to the right, continuing to follow Brewster, but as the others followed in their wake, he stopped as he entered the main drawing room of the house. “They're dead,” he murmured as he lowered his pistol, surveying the entire room that was littered with the bodies of what he could only presume to be the town's militia.

Blood was splattered against walls, chairs, tables, floor, and even the curtains. It looked like the men were brutally cut down using sabres or other sharp weaponry, though there were the occasional bits of white bone and brain matter that seemed to have been blown off by a point-blank discharge of weaponry against a militiaman's head.

“Jesus,” he heard Caleb whisper as he glanced back to see Tallmadge making his way down the hall. Caleb was staring at the stairs, but given the state of what they already found on the ground floor, Ben could only assume that the bedrooms on the second floor were most likely desecrated in the same manner.

“Sir,” the sharp, rising voice of his counterpart called down from the hall, sending a jolt of worry through him as he hurried out of the drawing room and towards the back.

Entering the kitchen, he found him staring out the back, and saw what had garnered his attention: there was a gallows that had been set up in the garden of the judge's house, and with it stood five people with sacks of canvas cloth covering their heads. One of them was wearing a dirty green dress, while the other four were wearing men's clothing – however he recognized two of those at the hangman's noose whose by their clothing alone – Samantha in the dress and Natalie in her disguise. He would not put it past that one of the other three men also on the gallows was Sackett... but who were the other two innocents?

Nooses were already draped around their necks, and their hands were bound behind them. Fourteen people, dressed in dark green jackets festooned with gold buttons covering pale vests that were paired with white breeches, stockings and black boots were lined behind the gallows. All were wearing strangely tall dull black helmets that were adorned with a curved silver moon centered on it. At least five of of the people were braced against the people standing on the platform, as if ready to push them off the platform. The other ten men were arrayed slightly behind the gallows, but they were holding matte-black blocky rifles.

As if that had not already caught his attention at just how skewed the potential negotiation was to be, from rather tall hedges in the far end of the garden that was beyond the gallows and the soldiers, a person stepped out. Director Andre, dressed in the future-people's BDUs garment took a few steps forward and looked directly into the kitchen windows. Ben knew that he expected them to come out.

“Samantha's in the middle, Natalie at the right end, and Mr. Sackett is in between them,” he said as the footsteps of the other two enter the kitchen.

“But who are the other two?” he heard his counterpart murmur.

“Goddammit,” Brewster spoke up, “They were ready for us. How the fuck are we supposed to negotiate?! This is a fucking hostage situation!”

“Ben,” Caleb immediately spoke up, “I say we go out there and just shoot those bastards before they can push them off--”

“And get all five of them caught in the crossfire?!” Tallmadge interrupted.

However before any of them could say another word, the Director calmly said in a loud voice, “I know you're in there, Major Tallmadge and whomever else is with him. I'll be generous and give you to the count of ten, before executing your agents, along with these other two men.”

As Andre started to count down, a clamor of voices coming from Caleb and Brewster assaulted his ears. However, his counterpart cut through the clamor and even managed to grab Caleb's arm to prevent him from prematurely charging through the side door and into the garden, saying, “None of them are armed with flintlocks. I might have something that can render their advanced rifles useless, but it will also make ours useless as well.”

“Sir, we don't have EMPs--” Brewster began.

“Just go out, say we negotiate,” Tallmadge quickly cut her off, and though Ben was not sure what exactly was an 'EMP', he heard conviction within his counterpart's tone. With the lives of five people at risk, anything they did to free them would have to be quick and precise. Tallmadge's actions thus far, though unconventional for this era, had not given him any reason to doubt the man. Despite their differences, he knew the man would not jeopardize the lives of their agents.

“We're coming out!” he shouted, just as Andre reached 'two' in his countdown. “We're coming out,” he repeated, setting his pistol to half-cock before slowly holstering it. Stepping forward, he immediately felt his counterpart's presence shadowing him. He could hear the other two also carefully arranging their weapons for quick draws and firings.

Stepping out from the open side door, he raised his hands slightly in the air as he stepped into the garden. Neatly trimmed hedges about knee high lined a small, winter-bare flower bed path while peeks of small winding paths of stone that had been embedded into the ground emerged from the snow. Ten men leveled their rifles at him and the others, while the five who were braced against the people on the platform glanced at them. Cautiously, he took a few steps forward, eyes half on the rifles and also on Andre standing near the tall hedges until movement from the tips of the rifles caused him to stop where he was.

Well aware that his counterpart was not quite behind him, but close enough that should he draw one of his pistols from behind, he was able to. If his counterpart chose to use the gamble that he had done last year in trying to put down the mutiny by the Pennsylvania men, it could be done, but he was sure that the blue rifle bolts would lance into them faster than any of them could react.

“Miss Shippen was kind enough to pass on your message, Director,” he stated, trying his damnest to not stare up at the five on the gallows. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could clearly see that the noose around all of their necks was much too tight for any of them to struggle much. “What are your terms?”

“The simplest of them, Major,” the Director answered, clasping his hands behind his back. “In exchange for these two--” the Director gestured to the two unknown men standing next to Samantha “--you and your counterpart here are to lay down your arms and submit yourselves to being captured as prisoners of war.”

Ben near let slip the epithet that ran through his thoughts as the canvas sacks were removed from the heads of the two men. However, Caleb had no such compunctions about cursing up a storm and Ben barely reacted in time to prevent his friend from charging past and trying to free one of the two revealed prisoners. Even Tallmadge and Brewster had to step in to drag Caleb back. He stared at the battered and heavily bruised face of Caleb's uncle up on the gallows before tearing his eyes away and settled onto the other uncovered man. The other man was Judge Shippen, and though he did not look as ill-treated as Lucas Brewster, fear was clearly shining in the Judge's eyes.

He managed to look away from the terrible sight as Caleb's curses continued to ring in the silence until his friend's voice became quite raw. After a few moments though, he balled his hands into fists as he looked back towards Andre and asked, “What are your terms in order to free all of them?”

“All of them?” Andre scoffed. “I think not. There are only four of you, and six of mine.”

“Six?” he questioned, before falling completely silent as he saw Simcoe, dressed in the same uniform as the other fourteen, emerge from the same hedge that Andre had stepped out of earlier. The man was marching another hostage in front of him though, with a pistol pointed straight at the hostage's head. Ben could not help but let slip a horrified whisper, “Father...”

“You may attempt to rescue those on the gallows, but I'm sure that there's no need to spell out the consequences of your attempt, Major,” Andre stated. “As I said, there are only four of you. You cannot trade for two additional people, but since I am a compassionate man, instead of dictating who you can and cannot free in exchange for yourself, your counterpart, and the Lieutenants behind you, I'll let you choose which four you want freed.”

“No, Ben!” he heard his father briefly shout before Simcoe pressed the barrel of his pistol further against his head, silencing him.

The other three hoods on those at the gallows were also removed, though Ben found himself taking a step back in surprise at the appearance of the three. Sackett was blinking owlishly as his eyes adjusted to the sunlight, with a rather large, ugly, purple-colored bruise covering his left eye. After a few moments, the man had focused his gaze upon the four of them, his expression unreadable.

The other two, Samantha and Natalie, were in a worse state than any of those on the gallows: both of them had absolutely blank expressions upon their faces. Their gaze was to the horizon, and it looked like it was as if life had been completely snuffed out of both of them; if not for the only sign they gave was minute twitches of their bound hands. The cause of their stupor was unknown, but he could assume that the tiny cylindrical items that were still attached to the sides of their heads contributed to it.

He heard his counterpart softly curse behind him as he tore his gaze away from the gallows and back to his father. His father was covered in innumerable bruises, some fresher-looking than others, but he could see that even as Simcoe's hostage, defiance still shone in his eyes. He tilted his head ever so slightly as he thought he saw his father shake his head, before he saw seven words silently spoken to him.

_I am proud of you. Save them._

“No,” he found himself uttering, even though his mind was thinking otherwise, his heart was of another school of thought. “No,” he whispered again as his mind warred with his heart – he could not, he could not do it. He could not sacrifice his own father... he could not. He could not-- “Do it!”

It was too late for him to take back the order as he found himself turning, wrapped up in a fog of his own doing, and reached for his two pistols. Just as he drew them out, he saw his counterpart step forward and twist his left fist with his right hand beyond what was normal for a breaking point. The left fist _broke_ off and was immediately thrown through the air. His eyes briefly blurred before he blinked and saw the detached hand land on the ground in the middle of the soldiers.

Beyond that was Simcoe, and just as the man's flintlock pistol was discharged, a bright wash of light exploded from detached hand on the ground, before a very audible whine followed it. He winced at the sound being pounded and seared across his ears, but as quickly as it came, it disappeared, and all that was left was the dying sound of the advanced rifles being held by the soldiers shutting down.

His aim was true as he snapped his gaze back at those on the gallows and fired one pistol after the other. The musket balls hit their targets, tearing through the ropes that suspended two of the five on the gallows before finishing their path into the heads of the Britannia soldiers who had cowardly tried to push their victims off of the platform.

He heard three other pistols being discharged but had already dropped the two he carried and rushed forward and leapt up to the platform to loosen and remove the useless nooses around Sackett and Natalie's heads. However, he did not linger long as he heard Andre shout, “Fall back!”

Fury enveloped his mind as he immediately drew his sabre, leapt off the platform and charged at Simcoe, who was being dragged back by Andre while trying to quickly reload his pistol. Unfortunately, his charge was cut short as a Britannia soldier stepped into his path and attempt to swing the butt of the matte-black rifle into him. He ducked as the rifle landed a glancing blow on his helmet and spun out towards his right, bringing him further away from the soldier. It gave him the room though, as he completed the spin to bring his sword slicing down in a diagonal direction to deeply slash into the soldier's back from shoulder to waist, killing him.

“Ben!”

He glanced back and immediately raised his free hand in the air to catch the flintlock rifle that Caleb had thrown to him. With what was left of the Britannia soldiers who had not been killed by flintlocks or by the others engaging them running away, Ben dropped his sabre and brought the rifle to bear on Simcoe. The man attempted to discharge his pistol in his general direction. However, with the distance between him and Simcoe too great, the pistol shot missed him by a least two arm lengths. However, the man was still within range of Ben's rifle.

He fired.

Expecting Simcoe to jerk back or at least twitch in response to the musket ball tearing through him, he was thoroughly crushed as he saw Andre shove Simcoe out of the way. The shot hit the back of the Director's right shoulder, but it didn't affect him as it normally would a person. Instead, Ben saw that the man continued to drag Simcoe out of harm's way, seemingly shrugging the shot off as if it were merely a gnat.

The rifle slipped through his fingers and hit the snow-covered ground as he realized that there was nothing else that he could do to stop them. They were now much to far for anyone to get a clear shot, and as mind-numbing despair slowly replaced the haze of anger, he found himself running towards the lone body that was half-way between the gallows and the edge of the garden hedges.

Removing his helmet as his vision blurred again, this time with fresh tears, he stopped and stared down at the unmoving body of his father. Fresh red blood upon the white blanket of snow was still pooling around the entrance and exit areas of the fatal wound. The helmet slipped from his hands as he dropped to his knees and drew his father's body towards him. “No,” he whispered, repeating the denial over and over again. It was his fault, his own doing, and there was nothing that would ever assuage the guilt that wracked him.

He alone, had condemned his father to death in order to save his agents and two civilians.

* * *

_Morristown, New Years Day, 1778_

 

“Well, doctor, how are our patients?”

Ben looked up from his listless gaze into the fireplace in Washington's office as he heard the surgeon enter the room and close the door behind him. The days that had passed between their return to Philadelphia and their departure to Morristown were a blur to him. He barely remembered anything that had happened after the rescue at Judge Hancock's house – only that the Judge and his wife, along with the 30 militiamen in the town had been killed by Simcoe's soldiers. They, along with his father, had been buried before he and the others left the town. The papers were calling it the Hancock House Massacre and blamed it on British soldiers.

Philadelphia was still under martial law, but restrictions were starting to ease in the wake of what had happened as the city was slowly being cleared of Andre's soldiers. He remembered little of the conversation that he had with General Greene with regards to those who had helped rescue him and the others at Shippen's house, except that they were now integrated into the Culper Spy Ring. Lieutenant Creighton became the primary intelligence courier between Philadelphia and Morristown, while Austin Roe and the Hattersfield twins took on the roles of spies and expanded their eyes within and outside of the city.

Judge Shippen had been handed over to Greene, while Caleb had received reassurance from Greene that the greatly shaken Lucas Brewster would be taken care of until spring arrived and he would be able to travel back to Setauket with ease. As for Samantha and Natalie, the two women remained in an unresponsive state, and that was how they brought them back to Morristown.

Upon their arrival, they had found out that Tallmadge's two soldiers and Peggy Shippen had arrived safely, but that an attempted assassination by British or Britannia agents had not happened. While relieved, he was still certain that a strike of sorts was to happen – they just knew not when or who, and he was determined to find that information.

Now though, he listened as the doctor said, “They remain as they are, sir. I know not what afflicts their mind and can do nothing more for them, short of suggesting that they be moved to a warmer environment and away from the camp. If they have any family, I would suggest you also contact them sir.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Washington said before the doctor gave one last look at those gathered around the room, nodded and left.

As soon as the door to the office closed, it was Tallmadge who turned around from leaning against the mantle of the fireplace and said, “General Washington, sir. With your permission, I would like to bring Agents Sackett and Tallmadge back with me to Setauket. They can rest and hopefully recover in peace there.”

“Hmph,” Sackett uttered before Washington could answer. “Nonsense. They'll stay right here, where they won't be subjected to cold tents, noise of the camp, and the lack of constant monitoring. I do not think your people to be that free of time to commit their time to take care of two people. Your lack of overt presence, however benevolent it may be, within Setauket's community also affords you no kind soul within to take care of these two agents without resentment or questions.”

“But you don't have anyone here to do that either--” Tallmadge began, frowning.

“We will,” Sackett answered in a matter-of-fact tone. “She should be here any day now.”

“She?” Brewster spoke up, coming to the defense of her commander. “No offense, Spectacles, but even if Benji here is going to North Fairfield by the way of Setauket, _I'll_ take care of Nat and Sam while they're in Setauket. They are our people, not yours.”

“Enough,” Washington cut into the argument before it could go any further. “Enough.”

Whatever else the general was going to say was abruptly halted when there was a knock on the office door and the voice of Billy Lee could be heard saying, “General, sir, there's a woman and a man here to see you. Said that it was urgent and that she has a letter from Mr. Sackett that also bears your signature.”

He caught Sackett's small shrug as he heard Washington say, “Let them in.”

The door opened, and Ben saw Billy gesture for those outside to enter. He frowned slightly as he saw a woman, dressed in a simple, dark brown dress with a cloak wrapped around her enter, carrying a small leather bag of sorts on her right arm and a letter in her left hand. Her eyes swept around the room before settling upon Sackett. However, it was the man who entered after her that caused the edges of his lips to droop a little further down as he recognized the man. However, instead of being dressed in the Continental Army uniform, the man was dressed in simple dark-colored civilian clothing. “Lieutenant Creighton?” he questioned.

“Commander Creighton, sir,” Tallmadge stated as Ben glanced over to see that both his counterpart and Brewster had stood up straighter than they had been earlier. He looked over at the man again and after a moment, started to notice the slight facial differences between the Lieutenant Creighton he knew and this man, most likely from the future, who had entered Washington's office. But how and where did this Commander Creighton come from?

“Ah,” Sackett broke in before anyone else could say a word, walking over to gently take the woman by her right arm. “And may I also introduce my wife, Elizabeth. She has kindly volunteered to nurse Natalie and Samantha back to full health.”

“Hey, wait a minute,” Caleb spoke up, as Ben saw him point to a familiar-looking double-barreled blunderbuss with a bayonet piece attached to it that was casually attached to a belt tied around the woman's waist. “That pistol...”

“Was a most useful gift that you imparted to me, sir,” Sackett's wife graciously answered, bowing her head slightly. “It protected my children and I during our escape from Ridgefield. Thank you for what you've done for us.”

“Uh...yeah... you're welcome, ma'am,” Caleb stuttered.

He was fortunately saved from further words as Washington spoke up asking, “And your companion, Mrs. Sackett?”

“Commander Jake Creighton, United States Navy Intelligence, sir,” the man said, snapping to attention and briefly giving Washington a salute. The general returned the gesture with a nod, before the man continued to say, “I was transported with the captain and crew of the submarine, _Ember of Winter_ , with final orders of General Charles Lee to seek out the highest ranking US Army officer in whatever era we ended up in. The captain, crew, and I found ourselves in Boston Harbor. After much information gathering around Boston, and thanks to Mrs. Sackett here, I found out that only one element of the US Army had been transported to this era and that their commanding officer was here.”

“But, sir, wasn't the _Winter_ and her captain destroyed and sunk during the Battle of Annapolis?” Brewster asked.

“No,” Creighton answered, “but yes, we were all led to believe that had happened. Turns out, Annapolis was Britannia's first test of their time manipulation device. Captain Mendez and her crew were the unwilling test subjects of what we've named as the Philadelphia Experiment. They reappeared in the mouth of the Connecticut River this year... or rather 2177 in late September. By the time we figured out how they got there and what carried them there, Britannia launched their assault and drove us from Groton and back to Salem. General Lee issued a directive to all remaining agents and their support: to seek out any elements of the United States military that may have been scattered through time and to establish a clear chain of command to destroy Britannian assets and advantages within those eras.”

“Pardon my interruption, Commander, but 'final' orders from General Lee?” Tallmadge spoke up, though it took all of Ben's concentration not to express just how he felt about a possible descendant of Lee commanding the entire future land army. He supposed that it was also prejudiced of him to assume that the future General Lee was a descendant of the General Lee he knew. The surname was common enough to have unrelated people carrying it.

“High Command has all been destroyed, Major,” Creighton said after a moment's pause with barely any emotional inflection of sorts in the tone of his voice. “Philadelphia, Baltimore, Saratoga, Richmond, Groton... they're all been taken over by Britannia. General Arnold was killed-in-action, as was Lieutenant Colonel Franklin. Generals Ramirez and Putnam are missing, along with Colonel Adams and are presumed possibly transported through time. Last anyone has heard of Major Jefferson and General Washington, Jefferson had fallen back from Philadelphia to Valley Forge before he and Washington evacuated to Sleepy Hollow. That was six months ago, Tallmadge. Four months ago, we intercepted intelligence indicating an already on-going massive assault on that position by Sheridan's Rangers. Nothing's been heard from that sector since.”

“General Putnam is presumed dead, sir,” Tallmadge stated. “We found evidence that he was killed by British forces in this era.”

“Then according to your account, Commander,” Washington quietly spoke up, “we can expect no more help from those in your era?”

“That is correct, sir,” Creighton answered. “If you pardon my rudeness, I do not know what establishments or agreements you have made between the Major and your forces here, but he is still under the command of our US military, not the Continental Army. Among the orders that Lee left was to also find this particular device, and destroy it.”

From a pocket within the civilian coat that the man wore, Ben saw a small rectangular device being withdrawn. Creighton pressed something on the side of the device and a long, flat portion of it was illuminated. However, the sketch or whatever that thing was, was being shown looked familiar as Ben took a step forward to take a closer look at it. It was the same image that he had seen seared into a piece of parchment when Natalie and the others had taken apart their General Putnam's advanced rifle to illuminate the crystal that Samantha had carried with her.

“Hey,” Brewster spoke up, “Isn't that...”

“Then I take it you've seen this before, Lieutenant?” Creighton asked in a no-nonsense tone, a definite far cry from the Lieutenant Creighton that he, Ben, knew.

“No, sir,” Brewster answered, “Sammie, I mean, Agent Tallmadge brought intel about it earlier in a data crystal but due to the limited tech here, we couldn't crack it. General Washington also reported that a scout had caught a sighting of the device.”

“You have a data crystal?”

“Yes, we do,” Washington interrupted before either Tallmadge or Brewster could answer. “But before we agree to any exchange of information or reaffirm any alliances that were negotiated, I would like to know something.”

Ben glanced back at his commander, puzzled at his words, even though a lot of Creighton's explanations were also quite confusing. However, he understood the gist of what had been told to them, and it spelled a bleak world for those of the future. It seemed though, that his commander, and oddly enough, neither Sackett or his wife were bothered by such hopeless news. Had his commander caught something in the man's words to dismiss such despairing news?

“Where do your people think the infernal contraption is located?”

“Given this era and what it stood for in our history,” Creighton said, “We believe that there may be more than one in operation, but may be located in either Philadelphia or New York City.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Nathaniel Sackett is still alive. No, he will not die in this fic because despite all odds, I am sort of following actual history. Yes, I hated what the writers did to him in TURN Season 2.
> 
> Historical Note: The Hancock House Massacre actually happened in 1778. I just happened to up the timeline slightly.
> 
> Other Random Notes of Interest: That "hand EMP grenade" will be addressed in the next chapter. Also, on the curious case of an original character named Jake Creighton and the ship named Ember of Winter: this particular character and ship have a legacy of being used in several fanfics that I've written and have also made an appearance in my original novels. I have a head canon that connects several of my fanfics together in the same universe with this particular character and the ship he sometimes commands or serves on being the link. You may find incarnations of Jake Creighton and/or the Ember of Winter appearing in the following fanfics: Section Zero Archives (Halo fic series), Hornblower and the Meridian, Echoes (PMK/RK fic series), and as of right now, TURN: One-Hundred-and-Eighty. They are all military/spycraft fanfics.


	12. 722 and 723 are Plot Devices (Mozzie Wore 723 Better)

**Chapter 12: 722 and 723 are Plot Devices (Mozzie Wore 723 Better)**

 

_Morristown, January, 1778_

 

“So then,” Washington said, closing the diary and bound it back up. “How soon do you think he or British-Britannia forces will strike?”

“As early as spring,” Sackett answered, weaving his fingers together before nervously bending them. “And given that we know that this Battle of Monmouth was a victory for us during the summer, they'll force the issue and try to make it a victory for them. The question is, how?”

“And how to discredit and capture a traitorous general with it too.”

He heard Sackett make a brief humming noise at the back of his throat, but did not expect his adviser to suggest a possible solution, at least not immediately. The case of General Charles Lee was a complex one, and one that he had to carefully navigate in order to not cause morale to drop or enemy agents to discover his plans. Even with Baron von Stuben busy drilling the men in formations and the like, he was aware that there were other generals within the camp that were not appreciative of foreign assistance. Should he discredit Lee and his cohorts now, then the discontented clamor of voices would fill the dangerous spot that the man vacated. Lee consistently danced upon a fine line between being subordinate and insubordinate. The only consolation that he, Washington, currently had, was the fact that he had a proper excuse to send Lee's trusted second, Bradford, to Connecticut to help stop the harassment and burning of the towns in that area.

“He crippled us,” Sackett muttered.

“Pardon?” he asked, frowning slightly.

“This Director John Andre,” his friend answered, placing his pipe down. “The Ring is still alive and can still be salvaged, but he most definitely crippled us. Knowing what we know from Natalie's diary, he specifically lured the entire Ring and then some to Philadelphia just to assess our strength. Our two counter-intelligence agents have been disabled, and now we must rely on 722 and company inside of New York to carry out the search. That and also those in Philadelphia. None of them have the extensive experience that Samantha and Natalie have.”

Sackett paused for a moment before picking up his cup of tea from the saucer and sipped it. Placing it back down, he said, “You must be cautious, George. Any information that we now receive from 722, the signal agent, and 355 cannot be fully trusted. 723's intelligence may be the only source we can fully trust, given that it seems from his words, he is the only one not fully embroiled within the mess.”

“And what of the information from before?” he asked, narrowing his eyes slightly.

“It could very well be false, but considering that 723 did partake in the vetting of some of the numbers, I would not throw the reports out. Remember, there still may be active enemy agents within camp. We must continue to play the fool for as long as possible, for even as dangerous as both men are, we are living in a century where there are no new fangled contraptions that the future-people can readily rely upon. Their supplies are limited in the sense that they cannot easily replenish from the natural order of things as we can. Director Andre is stuck here as we are, and can only do so much with the limited British resources he has, including his usage and manipulation of British High Command and Major Andre... and vice-versa. That makes both of them vulnerable.”

“Tallmadge will want to warn his agents though, Nathaniel,” Washington said after a moment in silence. “Given the dangers that are within the camp, and the reports and warning I received from the Ring in the past month, I was going to dismiss him as Head of Intelligence when he returned. Temporarily.”

“Then I would advise that you continue to do so,” the man answered. “It will give me an opportunity to reevaluate what we know and do not know, and perhaps cause some panic among those in New York. It will allow them to spin reports to give to the Ring to see if we will bite and fall for their traps. It will give you an opportunity to create the illusion of overstretching your confidence and then let them overreach theirs. But all of this is only if they find out that the boy is no longer your Head of Intelligence. They are watching him, George. Very closely. He is a threat to them.”

“He also just lost his father to British-Britannia action,” he quietly said, sinking back slightly into his chair. “He is distracted and news of Culper Junior's report will further engage those thoughts.” He fell silent as he thought about the temporary exile of his most valuable officer and what could be done to mitigate the damage he was about to inflict upon him. He knew that Tallmadge was sharpened by his recent ordeal in Philadelphia, and would want to engage in some type of action... but how would he keep that from happening until action was needed.

“William,” he called out in a louder tone after a few minutes of thought. There was a momentary pause in silence before the door to his office opened and his manservant entered. “Please have Hamilton find Tallmadge – our Major Tallmadge. I would like to brief him on recent Culper reports that have come to my attention. I would also like an update on Miss Shippen's condition. You may also let her know that I will be talking to her in the afternoon.”

“Yes, sir,” the young man answered, giving a slight nod towards him and left.

As soon as the door closed, Washington handed the diary back to Sackett, saying, “I thank you for sharing the information contained in here, Nathaniel. It is with hope that the information will prove to be most fortuitous the next time either the Director or Major tries to engage the Ring. Are you sure you do not need some time to recover from your ordeal or to help your wife?”

“No,” Sackett answered, “I do not. It is better if I keep my mind engaged. Idling is not in my nature and it always produces too many thoughts that cannot be trusted. I do thank you, George, for allowing those two to stay here for now. However, since you'll be presenting the reports to young Tallmadge soon, I shall take my leave.”

* * *

_The Big Apple (New York City)_

 

Even though it was briskly cold, especially with a fresh thin layer of snow covering the ground, people were still out and about. Abe was among the crowds gathered in this particular area in the Bowery, browsing wares and enjoying the clear, cloudless day that today afforded. Both his father, along with Mary who was carrying Thomas in her arms, were traveling with him. He had tried to convince his father to stay home, owing to the cold and his recovering health, but he had insisted on coming to 'get some freshly invigorating cold air'.

“Penny for your thoughts, Mr. Woodhull?”

“Wha-pardon?” he stuttered for a moment, looking up from a rather nicely carved wooden toy horse that he had been staring at and considering buying for Thomas.

Standing behind the winter market stand was a tall, reed-thin man with a neatly-trimmed black beard and mustache. His hair was also of the same color, but was slicked back and tied up in a neat queue. His outfit, while warm and presentable, was of the finer quality, which told Abe that the merchant was most likely newly arrived from England at least two months before.

“Penny?” he questioned, on guard for it was not the merchant's outfit that made him cautious, but the fact that the merchant knew his name and he did not even know the man.

“Ah, pardon the expression, Mr. Woodhull,” the merchant said, giving him a eerie smile that was instantly recognizable, even under such hair covering his lower face. “It is a common one from where I am from.”

“Simcoe,” he whispered. It had been at least a couple of months since he had been down the well and into the terrifyingly strange underground area, for the winter had not been able to afford him any plausible excuses to continue exploring and planning the escape of the prisoners down there. The fact that the future-Simcoe had now shown up in broad daylight in a disguise that he did not recognize him in until spoken to made him nervous.

“I mean not to startle you, Mr. Woodhull,” Simcoe said, as Abe glanced back and over his shoulder to see that Mary, Thomas, and his father were on the opposite side of the open market. “It has been a while since we last met and talked, but I wanted to inform you that your two Setauket men, Reverend Tallmadge and Lucas Brewster, are missing.”

“Missing?” he asked, frowning. “They escaped?”

“Alas, I don't think so,” Simcoe answered. “As of late, I was occupied by more pressing concerns than them, and when I was finally released from my duties, I discovered that they were missing. I believe that my counterpart, who briefly stopped by in December may have taken the two. Where the two and my counterpart are, I do not know.”

“Christ,” he said, “Can you find out?”

“I can try,” Simcoe said, before Abe saw his eyes stray slightly to beyond his shoulder. “However, I would highly suggest that you buy the toy horse for your son. It has a most interesting feature on the bottom stand that when removed, will be able to make it into a rocking horse.”

Abe glanced back to see that his family was now approaching and quickly dug out the necessary change before handing it over to Simcoe, who carefully wrapped the toy up in a clean piece of cloth. He accepted the object just as the man stated, “Happy New Year, sir. I hope your son enjoys the toy.”

“I'm sure he will,” he answered, giving the man a humorless smile before turning and leaving. Meeting his family near the center of the market, he gave them a wide and happy smile before unraveling the toy horse and waved it in front of Thomas. “Look what papa got you, Thomas.” Delight shone on his son's face, but with the crowds in the area, he did not hand the toy over just yet, not wanting his son to lose it. “I'm going to keep it safe until we get home, all right?” he said, making a big show of wrapping it back up in the cloth before tucking it within his his jacket's pocket. He could see his son frown, but there was an understanding in his eyes.

“Ah, Richard!” a familiar voice called out, causing all of them to turn to see Major Hewlett stroll across the market, a dark cloak wrapped around his uniform. While Hewlett's presence always seemed to bode well for Abe, it was the presence beside the major that soured his mood considerably.

His initial worried thoughts of Anna's dangerous involvement within the task that Washington had requested of them while in the city had turned more towards anger each time he saw her. Whether it was alone within the confines of the small abandoned cellar or even out in the open while she ran errands for the boarding house, as of late, Abe had found that she had effectively put herself in such danger that even he would not be able to rescue her from it if he decided to ever confess to being a spy for the Continentals.

Since that secretive meeting she had gone to with Hewlett outside of the city in Elizabethtown, he had seen her by his side in a near-constant manner whenever she was not working or running errands. There seemed to be an extremely secretive nature around her in the rare times that he had seen her alone. Even his occasional contact with Townsend at the hideout yielded nothing about what exactly she was doing other than the fact that she had completely gained the confidence of Hewlett and shared information from Abigail about Major Andre.

He had not gotten an opportunity since that Elizabethtown meeting to confront her about her activities, but he suspected that if he tried, they would end up arguing like they had before the meeting. Still, he was worried about her...

“Mary, Abraham,” Hewlett's cordial greeting towards them continued, snapping him out of his thoughts as he caught the nervous smile that Anna gave towards them as she demurred and bowed her head slightly. “And little Thomas. My have you grown so much.”

The light laughter of his wife answered Hewlett's kind words as she answered, “Yes, he's getting bigger each day, and a little heavier to carry each week.”

Taking that as his cue, he stepped up to his wife and reached for his son, saying, “Here, let me take him for now.” As his wife passed their son over to him, it gave him the opportunity to take a quick look at how she was reacting to circumstances. After she had confessed to knowing what exactly he did and how silent she had been for all of these months concerning his activities, she had seemed to carry on their lives as if nothing had changed. However, he had seen small but subtle movements in the way she had carried herself through the streets and within their house – as if she was trying to distance herself and their son from him and his illicit activities... as if he was to be caught by British soldiers soon. That had not happened in the past months, but he had been extra careful in watching his own surroundings and movements since that day.

It was tiring to be watching his own back constantly while in the city, but the only saving grace he had was the fact that Townsend had temporarily taken over duties in sending information out of the city and to the hollow. He knew that worrying over the man being caught by patrols while slipping in and out of the city was asking for sleepless nights, but there were times where he had woken up to the nightmare of a noose being closed around his neck.

As he pressed and held Thomas close to him, rubbing his small back to warm him in the cold, he listened to the idle chatter that his father and Mary were engaged in with Hewlett. He could see Anna politely nod towards certain things that were being said, but to catch her eye right now was not the best of times. She had a clever head on her shoulders, but something about that Elizabethtown meeting still nagged at him, and the fact that she was silent about it continued to worry about him. Washington had received the report about the meeting, written in invisible ink, but she had not told either him or Townsend what exactly had happened in that meeting other than General Lee and a Major Bradford being traitors.

~~~

Dampness from the cellar contributed to the slight bouts of shivering that occasionally wracked his body at intermittent times as he sat at the small work bench, carefully examining the small piece of paper that had been folded and tucked flush against the base of the toy horse. Said horse was now in the full possession of his son, but not before he had arranged it so that it had become a rocking horse while discreetly taking the piece of paper out and away.

The rather loud, awful sound of creaking floorboards and squeaky hinges from the cellar door caused him to look up and quickly stuff the paper within his jacket's inner pocket as the doors open, letting cold air into the cellar. Flakes of snow from above ground also blew in as footsteps took the steps down into the cellar proper slowly. A lantern was spied first before the clacking sound of the cellar doors closed. Moments later, Abe breathed a sigh of relief as he saw that it was Townsend wrapped up in a 'borrowed' cloak of sorts. Well, the man claimed that he was only borrowing it from a kind old lady who had spied him and a couple of his beggar mates a month ago, trying to warm themselves up in an open pit fire near her residence and had given them warmer clothes that had been worn by her now-deceased husband.

Still, the kindness of those in the city was not always to be had – and Abe could see clear resentment in many of the local inhabitants' eyes at the continued occupation of the British troops within their city. Between the British and the Continentals, Abe thought that none of those in the city liked to have any military presence of sorts within. However, even with the 'accidental' burning of part of the city that was still being blamed on the retreating Continentals, the British had done nothing so far to repair that area and had left it as is and allowed it to fall into further squalor and disrepair.

“Townsend,” he acknowledged as the man shook out his cloak of the snow before blowing out and placing his lantern on the table and took a seat on the stool.

“Woodhull,” the man answered in kind. “What's this about?”

“Let's wait for Anna,” he said, and moments later, the same sounds from above that he had heard from Townsend entering the cellar came. Anna's footsteps were lighter in nature, but still, every single time he heard movement from above so near the cellar, he could not shake the feeling of wanting to escape, nor of the reaction that he had in slipping his right hand ever closer to the hidden knife in his left wrist strap.

“Abraham. Robert,” Anna said as she descended the stairs after closing the door. Her own lantern was set to the side after it too had been blown out. With such dark and clear of a night, any additional light from additional lanterns below here would be dangerous. Thus they had adopted the cautious nature of whomever arrived first at the cellar would keep their lantern lit and those who arrived afterwards would douse their own, lighting them only when they were all ready to leave.

Abe carefully watched as she settled in the third and final stool within the cellar, and after a moment, pulled the small piece of paper out. Laying it on the workbench table, he smoothed it out as he heard his two companions shift slightly to get a closer look at it. “This is a piece of the layout of an underground facility within this city,” he explained. “I've been in this place before, and this map is a piece of the place that I found in the empty well you had me investigate, Townsend.”

“So you did find something,” the man answered in a relieved tone.

“Yes, and that requires Anna and I to explain to you the entire tale behind this place,” he said, looking over towards Anna, who nodding her head slightly. He had not told her about what this meeting was tonight except that it required her presence. He was aware that Townsend had had a couple of those within the alleyway cabal follow him for the better part of a couple of months, but after what he had found out down in that underground area, it had made him extremely nervous enough that he wasn't even sure that he could trust the man who had slipped this map to him.

And so he begun, starting from what had happened in Setauket and what exactly last spring had brought to their doorstep, along with the chaos of a war that he didn't even know if he would be able to fully explain in a sensible manner. Anna occasionally gave her own words or explanation into something that he had missed during the terrifying ordeal at Setauket, but soon fell silent as he explained what the world below held.

Having traveled only through the particular well that Townsend had him explore, he was careful not to paint the Simcoe in that underground place in as much of a negative light as the Simcoe that both he and Anna knew in the most unpleasant of fashions. However, as soon as he was done with the tale, even he had doubts that what he had said was coherent enough for himself. Somewhere within his mind, he was questioning his own sanity in the light of such madness.

“Well,” Townsend said after a moment, “that is a tall tale if ever I heard one.”

“And it is all true, Mr. Townsend,” Anna insisted, frowning. “Every single thing we've told you is true. We would never seek to make light of any of this sordid affair.”

“Then why tell me? What do I have to do with this piece of the underground map that you've apparently been given by this supposed ally of ours within?”

“I wouldn't call him an ally,” Abe answered, holding up the piece of parchment. “More like a concerned citizen who seeks to end this war as much as we want this to end on our soil.”

“But you trust him so, even though he is clearly a descendant of this Captain Simcoe who has harassed both of you while in Setauket? This same Captain Simcoe who is an acquaintance of your Major Hewlett whom you spend so much of your time with, Anna?”

“Oh, the Major is no friend of Simcoe,” Anna bitterly said. “In fact, I don't believe that the poor man has any so-called friends.”

“Well, apparently, it seems that he can count on this Major Andre and his descendant, this Director Andre, as allies... or friends,” Townsend argued.

“Okay, enough,” he intervened, noticing that Anna had deliberately ignored Townsend's concerned questioning of Anna's activities for the Ring. It was also for the sake that they could not linger down here for much longer lest they draw suspicion from those above. “I need both of you to help me. Now, I'm assuming that this is part of a series of small maps that Simcoe, our concerned citizen Simcoe, is sending to us... at least to me. I've seen the place, but I do not remember every single detail of it, and when it is finally put together, I'm going to attempt to break those they hold prisoner out. I need you, Townsend, to have your men ready at a moment's notice to hide the prisoners away. Anna, since you have a good relation with Hewlett and by extension, with Andre, I need both you and Abigail to keep both men away from the area. We still don't exactly know when it will happen, but given that we've been giving information to Washington for a while, especially troop numbers, we want to break their prisoners out before spring is upon the city.”

“Why, Woodhull?” Townsend asked. “What's so important about these prisoners?”

“Leverage,” he stated. “They're all being used as leverage... against us, and against those of the Ring who are by Washington's side.”

He did not want to mention to either Anna or Townsend that the two Setauket men were already missing. He hoped that their ally within the underground area would truly be able to find out information. He also did not want to tell them that it was the haunting image of both his descendant and Anna's descendant, caged and broken within those cells that had plagued his dreams for the past months. It was already enough that he had awoken gasping for air, and had nearly woken his wife up with his nightmares – he could not bear to see those two suffer any longer than they had to.

“You're the only one of us, Townsend,” he stated, “who can ensure that Washington receives reliable information. Until we free those below, the rest of us have our hands tied.”

“Then why hasn't Major Andre or others of the British Command within the city stopped or arrested you?”

“That's the same question I ask myself everyday,” he answered, shrugging slightly. “Honestly, I don't know.”

“I don't believe Major Andre knows about our roles,” Anna spoke up. “Otherwise, why let us live? We're in the heart of British Command. Given this underground place, and the fact that this Deputy Director Simcoe has smuggled us information, perhaps he is the shield that protects us.”

“Perhaps,” Abe agreed. “But regardless, your role in this Townsend, is vital. Keep to the shadows, keep to the ground, and most of all, keep safe. Should Anna, Abigail, our underground ally, or I be caught and executed, you are Washington's only hope in this city.”

* * *

_A little campfire within the gargantuan camp in Morristown..._

 

“Jesus Sackett, do you even trust yourself?!”

“Not for years,” the man replied, as Caleb took a swig of the bottle of Madeira, watching the man twist something on that strange contraption of his that made it creak rather loudly.

“It's a wonder how your wife's tolerated you,” he heard Carrie mutter as she held up an elegantly fashioned hook that was as big as his hand and gleamed against the firelight. He saw her squint, taking a closer look at it as she too, took a swig out of the rum bottle. “She must be a saint.” Lowering the hook, she placed it to the side of her on the log she was sitting at as she glanced over towards Tallmadge, who was seemingly engrossed in fiddling with something that was on the underside of his left hand wrist.

“So,” Caleb said, trying to fill the awkward silence that had fallen between the four of them, sitting at the campfire. “What is the actual name for that explosive that came out of your... erm, fake left hand, Tall-green-boy?”

Sackett was the only one of them who was not partaking in the imbibing of spirits – they all needed it after their ordeal in Philadelphia, along with the news that Creighton, who had already left camp, had brought to them – though Sackett was the one to have produced Natalie's bottle of moonshine from the barn. Said bottle was sitting on the right side of Tallmadge, already half-way empty.

“Electromagnetic Pulse,” he heard Tallmadge grind out quite angrily as he continued to fiddle with the skeletal-like replacement hand for the fake one that had been destroyed at Judge Hancock's house.

The temporary replacement had been the hook that Carrie had been examining; fashioned by the blacksmith, Austin Roe, when they had returned to Philadelphia before traveling to Morristown. The skeletal replacement hand had come from some compartment of sorts within Tallmadge's robotic horse, and he had learned then that Tallmadge had had his hand blown off during the first few weeks of the future-people's rebellion. Doctors had worked to save what was left of his arm and had given him what was termed a 'prosthetic' hand – first the skeletal one as a temporary replacement, and then the skinned one.

Carrie knew of the fake hand, but even she had not known of the explosive that had been stored inside of it. Tallmadge had curtly explained that the hand was never supposed to be used that way and that what was stored inside of it to make it function normally was to keep it active for many years without breaking down. It had saved all of their lives though, and even though Carrie had teased her commander about a 'holy hand grenade' of sorts, to which Caleb did not understand the significance of it, he was still grateful for the sacrifice that Tallmadge had made.

“So it makes the advanced rifles useless,” he continued, trying to prod the man to speak up as he saw him pick up the bottle of moonshine and take a rather large swallow from it before putting it back down. It was not because of the loss of a hand that the man was quite angry about but something else-- “Oy!”

His Madeira was yanked out of his hand with his protest unheeded as Ben swept in and plunked himself down next to him taking a rather large gulp out of the bottle. He saw his friend make a face before glaring at the bottle, then took yet another swig from it, and carelessly tossed it back to him. Caleb caught the bottle and juggled it around for a moment, spilling some onto his clothes, but that was not as alarming as Ben's next actions, which was to get up and snatch the bottle of moonshine sitting next to Tallmadge.

Tallmadge's furious eyes immediately snapped up and were pinned on Ben, as Caleb scrambled up and yanked the bottle away from his friend, saying, “Oy, calm down Ben! What the hell is the matter with you?!”

“I've been dismissed from camp,” Ben angrily answered. “I'm no longer Head of Intelligence. Washington blames me for Anna going rogue and Abe potentially withholding key intelligence – never mind that both of them, 355, _and_ Townsend may all have been compromised even before Philadelphia! All of that intelligence we collected from them; they're completely fake and useless! And he's refusing to infiltrate a man into the city to get them out!”

“Just goes to show, he ain't got no head for Intelligence,” he muttered as Ben snatched the Madeira up again and took another long gulp from it. As alarmed as he felt about Washington even refusing to remove Abe and the others from harm's way, despite hearing from Ben how Washington had been the one to suggest the beginnings of an alias for Abe, he kept himself as calm as possible. Ben's current behavior was even more alarming than hearing news about Abe and Anna. He had never seen his friend behave like this before nor drink as much as he had taken in, in less than five minutes.

“He says that if I couldn't control obedience from a friend hand-picked for the task, then what hope do I have from gaining it from any other asset?” his friend continued to ramble before taking yet another long drink from the bottle.

“Well, I'm an asset aren't I?” he said, though it was not the choicest of words to say as he caught Ben's dubious glare thrown towards him and managed to amend his statement with, “Not that I always do what you tell me...”

“I'm being sent to Boston! To appraise the status of their defenses! What horseshite! It's a good thing that New York is too heavily defended for us to walk right in – otherwise, I'd go and clock their heads together. How could either of them lie to us like that?!”

“Benny-boy, calm down,” he said, noticing that both Sackett and Carrie were looking at both of them with some concern in their eyes. On the other hand, it seemed that Tallmadge, still scowling at his prosthetic skeletal hand and fiddling with it, was ignoring them. Whatever Washington had told Ben or shown him was grave enough that he knew that even with alcohol running through him and muddling his mind, his friend would never threaten someone like that. “We can still work with this...”

And those continued to be the wrong words for him to say, as it sent his friend over the edge. The bottle of Madeira was violently thrown against the edge of the campfire and broke into tiny pieces while the alcohol itself hissed against the fire. “Hey!” he protested. “Now that's just a waste of good Madeira!”

“It's over, Caleb. It's all over,” Ben said, suddenly looking quite defeated as Caleb saw him flop down onto the log and scrub his hands over his face and hair. “Culper... my father...” In a much quieter tone that was almost whispered so softly that Caleb thought he was imagining it, Ben said, “Natalie...”

“No,” he stated, “It's not. It's not over. Look, we're going to have some time on our hands while in Boston, yeah? What say we start planning to infiltrate into New York and get Woody and the others out?”

“What, just the two of us?” Ben asked, looking up.

“Four, sir,” Carrie spoke up. “I may be stuck here for now training these greenhorns, but that doesn't mean I can't help. And, Benji here will be in North Fairfield in the foreseeable future. If you're going to bust into New York real quiet-like, I'm definitely in. Who knows just how many Britannia soldiers are already within the city.”

“Good point,” he answered, grinning before glancing back over at his friend who still had a forlorn look upon his face. As for Ben's counterpart, well the man was still seemingly terribly busy with the skeletal hand. Hoping to at least get some acknowledgment, he said while slowly and carefully placing the moonshine bottle back down on the ground next to Tallmadge, “I'm just going to hand this back to you, General, yeah?”

“Don't call me that,” he heard Tallmadge immediately answer in a resentful tone. “I refuse to accept it--”

“Wait, what?” Ben asked, his despairing anger completely fleeing into parts unknown as he looked at Tallmadge, quite flabbergasted. “G-General? What?”

“He got promoted,” Sackett spoke up as if it were the most obvious of things, briefly glancing up at them before returning his attention to his strange contraption that he was now closely and carefully examining.

“No I didn't,” Tallmadge immediately countered, picking up the moonshine with his skeletal hand took a rather large swig from it.

“General Lee decided to include in his last orders to establish command bases in the eras that we've all been scattered to, sir,” Brewster said, looking slightly unsure of herself. “Creighton briefed the rest of us on that in private before he left. Said that Lee's orders were to try to not get too involved within the era's economics, politics, and wars unless absolutely necessary, which is why he had us establish command bases. ”

“It's not a promotion, it's a fucking prison,” Tallmadge interrupted, holding the bottle in his prosthetic hand, a clearly audible sound of a whine, along with the cracking of glass indicating how tight of a grip he had around it. “And it's way too fucking late for us to get untangled from this war. I don't want it. I don't want to be brevetted to generalship.”

“Why?”

Sackett's question seemed to pierce into the angry fog that had been pulled over Tallmadge's eyes as the ear-piercing whine abruptly stopped. Caleb carefully watched as one moment, there was a clear amount of resentment within the man's eyes but in the next moment, that was completely gone and replaced by an utterly defeated look. It greatly unnerved him to see such a eerie look mirrored upon Tallmadge's face, for that was exactly the same look that Ben had moments ago.

“I'm sure _you_ don't want a bullshit excuse, Mr. Sackett,” Tallmadge said after a moment, bitterness creeping into the tone of his voice. “Nat wouldn't have wanted one.”

“Hmph,” Sackett said, placing his contraption across his lap as he adjusted his spectacles on his face before saying in a frank tone, “I don't care what excuse you give, Tallmadge. You'd have to be a blind man to not see that after our esteemed General Washington made you and your battalion's presence known, every general under his command wants to order you around.”

“I know that,” Tallmadge said, half-snarling his words. “Lee's orders were there to exactly prevent something like that. I _know_ that. I just... it's just... Washington... my Lieutenant General Washington, was _my_ commander.... not Lee. She was my commander...”

“She's not dead, sir... Benji,” Carrie said after a moment of silence as Ben's counterpart looked down at the bottle he was holding and nearly breaking with his hand. “Commander Creighton never said that she was among the list of killed. He just said that she and Major Jefferson were--”

“Fighting against a host of Sheridan's Rangers,” Tallmadge finished for her in a defeated tone. “No one can survive a head-on confrontation with them. No one ever has.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Caleb saw Ben open his mouth to say something, but then close it and nodded. While he would have attributed it to Ben sympathizing with them, there had been something on his friend's momentarily pinched expression that told him otherwise. Ben seemed to have some knowledge or idea about the mysterious Ranger group, but had determined that this was not the setting to express it. Curiosity piqued at him, for if Ben knew some other information about the Ranger group, he, Caleb, would've liked to know – perhaps he would be able to wheedle it out of Ben later.

“That question was also for you, Major,” Sackett spoke up in the silence that fell among them, nodding towards Ben. “Why do you think the Culper Ring is done for?”

“Director Andre is here and he _knows_ about the history of the Ring. He'll have agents within New York already telling him that Abe, Anna, even Abigail are within! I wouldn't even put it past him that he's already informed Major Andre about them! They should already be--”

“Dead?” Sackett interrupted.

“Yes, if not soon!”

“Then tell me Tallmadge,” Sackett said, placing his hands out towards the fire, warming them slightly, “in all of the Gazettes that you've read so far, were there any announcements of any particular deaths by hanging or otherwise?”

Caleb was not the only one to give a start as Sackett's words sunk in. Though he was not partial to reading the lies that the British printing presses churned out, there were some sections within the Gazettes that gave him insight as to where he could potentially get a good deal on black market items. He did occasionally read who had been hung or executed, but even that was usually published in the Gazettes... on the front page. The British did love to announce who was an executed spy, thief, or otherwise to help deter those here from their continual rebellion.

“T-there's been nothing,” Ben said after a moment. “No announcement... nothing, but wouldn't Director Andre try to silence them?”

“You've been in the hands of that man,” Sackett said, sniffing slightly as he rubbed his hands together. “A shrewd one that he is, but he knows his limitations here. Hence why he only brought Britannian troops with him to Judge Hancock's house.”

“But Captain Simcoe--” Carrie began, but fell silent as Sackett held up a hand to forestall her protest.

“Is one who cannot have his bloodlust sated. Andre might have summoned him there only to indulge in that bloodlust of his and the need for revenge after what you did to him and his troops at that Connecticut safe house last year, Tallmadge. We'll never know, but the fact that we have not heard one word of our spies being captured by British-Britannia forces should give us some hope and some pause.”

“Andre, both the Major and the Director, do not have clout with British High Command to silence the printing presses, correct?” Ben guessed.

Sackett nodded, “That would be my assumption too. Which means, Culper and the others may still be free. Watchful but still free.”

“Which still raises the question: why haven't they either captured or arrested Culper and the others yet?” Tallmadge asked. “If I were him, I'd already capture any spies and make them send false information under duress...”

“Which he may already be doing, and that he is only allowing Abe and the other to think that they're sending accurate information to the General,” Ben pointed out and Caleb could not help but feel a chill pass through him, even though it was still bone-numbingly cold out here. “He played us like fools... all of us...”

“But he won't anymore, now that we know that he is here in this era, he can't use that card anymore,” Tallmadge said, tilting his head slightly to the side as if a thought had just came to him. “Washington gave you orders to appraise the status of Boston's defenses right?”

“Yes...”

“Did he say for what?”

“What? W-why would he do such a thing? I'm just counting troops... oh,” Ben began but then fell silent as Caleb saw him furrow his forehead slightly before tilting his head in the same manner that his counterpart had just done, as if solving a puzzle that only either one could see. “I see,” he said after a moment, though Caleb was not sure if that gleam in his friend's eyes was a good sign or not.

“You may not be Head of Intelligence anymore, but you are still commander of the 2nd Light,” Tallmadge said. “I'll be in around the south and eastern Connecticut region until the British and Sheridan's Rangers decide to stop harassing Connecticut towns, but I'll have Lieutenant Winters send you a list of the minimum amount of troops needed to defend all towns on eastern Long Island. Given the historical threat Director Andre knows that Washington will pose come spring, he's going to most likely try something drastic to cut our numbers or convince British High Command to do something about it. He's a very militarily influential Director in my era, but he still has to play tough politics in yours. If Continental and Congress reactions are to be an indicator on how our presence has been accepted within this era, you can bet that British High Command will have likely the same or worse reactions. Your troops, mine, and others will have to be ready if he manages to convince someone in B-H-C besides whatever he can give Captain Simcoe to throw at.”

“Washington is specifically asking for the numbers from Boston,” Ben said, nodding in agreement. “He may mean to integrate them with other defenses, but he most likely will be moving garrisoned forces out somewhere... the problem is, how to do it without British or Britannia agents finding out?”

“The _Ember of Winter_ ,” Tallmadge said after a moment, snapping his fingers. “It's a submarine... a submersible ship that can move underwater and carry a complement of crew to attack or transport troops without being seen by land-based forces. Commander Creighton must have told him about it before he left.”

“So it's an advanced version of the Turtle?” Sackett asked, curious.

“Turtle?” Tallmadge questioned.

“Neat thing we got at Q-branch,” Carrie supplied. “One-man submersible for the 18th century. I'll show you it later before you leave.”

“While I am impressed by the amount of advanced things that we now have to use,” Ben said, returning their attention to the matter at hand, “Moving that many troops along the region can mean only one thing. He means to strike New York City.”

“Didn't you say that the intel we got from Culper and the others is useless, sir?” Carrie asked.

“Useless, but not completely,” Ben answered, weaving his hands together before resting his elbows on his knees. “Culper Junior has an easier time to get in and out of the city, and has a network of informants relying on the good graces of Anna and Abe. Given his disposition, I think he has more at stake to ensure that whatever numbers Abe and Anna give are true. Part of the information we received is trustworthy then, and Washington means to attack the city before those numbers can be proved wrong.”

“And if those numbers are already wrong, we may not have the forces necessary to break through,” Tallmadge quietly followed up. “That's why he needs a vanguard; troops that can face down possible integrated forces within the city. He means to empty Long Island of the 2nd Legionnaires.”

“But wouldn't that leave Setauket and all the other towns vulnerable during the assault?” Caleb asked, greatly concerned.

“Not if the forces in Boston are emptied and sent to Long Island while the _Ember of Winter_ and her crew are guarding their city,” Tallmadge said, frowning slightly. “Washington has the numbers, and given that both Carrie and von Stuben are training the people here, the numbers for the western half are all there on paper. If he pulls the Saratoga forces down, there's the north numbers, and with the 2 nd Legionnaires on the east side, he's effectively boxed them into the city. Given your victories at Brandywine and Saratoga, I'm quite sure that your Congress may authorize more bounties to be had in this year to encourage more to sign up.”

“But we don't control Fort Westpoint, nor some of the smaller outposts along the Hudson,” Ben pointed out.

“If I were him, I'd do surgical strikes on those outposts and the fort,” the man answered. “Just remove all the British forces there, but don't try to stock or man the areas. Hit it, torch it if need be, and keep pushing on.” Tallmadge paused for a moment before muttering in a slightly awed tone, “Damn, General Washington is going to force New York way before it actually happens. He's going to force Britannia and Andre's hand.”

“Oy,” Caleb said as the two fell silent. Despite seeing and being quite amazed at such genius being put to work, there was one element that both had failed to consider. “As entertaining it is to watch you two drunk geniuses plan, what about Abe? Anna? They're in the city right now. How do we get them out before all of this? Woody has his family too.”

“We don't,” Ben answered after a moment of silence that was filled with the crackling and snapping sound of the logs burning.

“Wha--”

“We don't until the assault begins,” Ben continued. “Not until there's enough chaos for you and Brewster here to slip in and get them out. They're in the northern parts of the city, and that may give us more room to get them out to safe haven... say for example, towards Connecticut.”

“Yes, but we're already speculating a little too far here,” Tallmadge spoke up. “We don't even know what's going to happen come spring. Let's just concentrate on what we know... that is, you, Major, are being sent to Boston to assess troops. Let's work with that and I'll get back to North Fairfield by the way of Setauket and start preparing my people. Carrie's already got her marching orders to train the troops.”

“Where Ben goes, I'm going,” Caleb said, smiling slightly, “I'm not staying in this God-forsaken pit for the rest of winter. Nope, it's going to be the Green Dragon Inn for me, General.”

“Don't call me that,” Tallmadge immediately answered, glaring at him. “I'm not a General. Call me that again, and I swear, Brewster, I'm going to make your life miserable.”

“Can't be as miserable as this place-- hey, ow!” he began, but yelped as he received a sharp elbow to his side. Giving an indignant look towards Ben who had prodded him with said elbow, he knew what the gesture meant, but still...

“Hmph,” Sackett said, getting up and absently using the contraption he had been fiddling with to reach his back and scratch it. “Thank you for the enlightening conversation, but if you have any plans for the Turtle in future operations... that is only _if_ I let any of you get your grubby hands on it... I have some work to do. Otherwise, my other infernal contraptions require some tending to. Do take care and be safe on your journeys.”

“What, no words of wisdom before we depart for the great north tomorrow morning?” Caleb teased as the man started to stroll away, continuing to scratch his back with the contraption.

“No,” Sackett answered. “When have I ever given you any?”

* * *

_Mid-morning, the next day..._

 

“Well, they're very perceptive, I'll give you that. Tallmadge senior and Tallmadge junior already worked out part of your plan. Not the Philadelphia one, but a derivative of it applied to New York. No help from me at all.”

“Did they now?” Washington questioned, looking up from the maps he was currently pouring through. Stacks of reports were laid out in neat piles on the another table, but right now, he was concentrating on assessing just how many troops each region under Continental control had. There was a full goblet of wine that had been sitting on top of the corner of a rather large map of the New York region, but he had all but forgotten about. “I do sometimes wonder why my former Head of Intelligence did not apply such acumen to his duties in these past few months.”

He was aware that both Tallmadges along with Lieutenant Caleb Brewster had left just after dawn. He had heard from Mrs. Sackett during morning meal that both had said their farewells to the still stupor-stated women. Neither of the two agents had stirred, though Mrs. Sackett had thought she had seen Agent Tallmadge's hand twitch slightly, but attributed it to a trick of the morning light.

“The thrill of victory at Setauket with a welcome home as a hero, breath of fresh air in the woods of Connecticut, the flush of a good battle at Brandywine, and lastly the pleasant company of close friends within camp,” Sackett espoused in a grandiose fashion, though Washington merely closed his eyes for a moment and quietly sighed – the only sign of exasperation that he would show towards his friend. “Such tastes seems to have governed the mind of our Head of Intelligence.”

“This is not a school for espionage and intrigue, Nathaniel,” he reminded him.

“Yes,” Sackett answered, nodding sagely, his actions completely devoid of any strange quirk of nature that seemed to constantly surround him. “I do know that. Which is why I have been letting him roam and allowing him to make decisions on his own--”

There was a knock at his door as he heard the voice of his manservant say, “Sir, I apologize for disturbing you, but Mrs. Sackett insisted on seeing you.”

“Please let her in, William,” he answered. A moment later the door to his office opened and in walked Sackett's wife. There was a pleasant air about her, even though he was aware of just how late at night she stayed up, coupled with her strict vigilance in tending to her charges. His manservant closed the door after she entered and he noticed that she looked quite at ease despite the exhaustion that he thought she must have felt.

“They have awoken, General Washington,” she stated without preamble. “Though I should clarify that they are now responding to changes in their surroundings, but only with small movements. I would humbly advise--”

The door opened again, but this time instead of an aide or even his manservant disturbing him, it was the unexpected appearance of a haggard but hale-looking Agent Tallmadge. There was a rather heavy blanket wrapped around her, but he was rather surprised to see her standing upright, never mind that she was moving without assistance. Moments later, the door was widened by the push of his manservant, apologizing and saying, “I'm sorry, sir, but she insisted, and wouldn't return upstairs to rest.”

“Miss Samantha!” Mrs. Sackett immediately admonished, going over to help the young woman. Mrs. Sackett glanced back towards both him and her husband, saying, “I apologize, gentlemen, but it seems that my charges are a little more mobile than I had anticipated. I shall return shortly.”

He saw Agent Tallmadge resist, shaking her head quite vigorously before managing to croak out, “Natalie and I... we know where the devices that brought all of us here are... and how to permanently kill Director Andre.”

* * *

_New York City, late January..._

 

Rifles that did not spit balls of wrought metal through a gunpowder application, but instead poured out light that burned all that it touched. Things that created a glass roof of sorts that protected against the pounding of cannonades... it was absurd, ridiculous, and had Robert heard it from any other person, he would have asked if they had been drinking too much to addle their mind. However, both Woodhull and Anna had told their tale of Setauket with such conviction and earnest in their voices that he wanted to believe them, wanted to see such terrifyingly wondrous displays of utter ridiculousness.

He had attempted to return to the well that Woodhull had said that led to the entrance to the underground cavern, but like before, found it sealed and inaccessible. That had cast more doubts in his mind, until the appearance of a few more pieces of parchment that contained more of the map of the underground place in their hideout. It seemed that this particular Simcoe character only trusted Woodhull, and vice-versa, though he could see and hear the great reluctance that had colored the man's tone whenever Simcoe was mentioned.

Wrapping the borrowed cloak around his clothes a little tighter as a chilly breeze slapped down the alleyway, tossing him from his thoughts, he suddenly found his way blocked by two patrolling British soldiers. Ducking his head slightly, he grunted and murmured an, “Pardon me,” but as he attempted to move through the soldiers, but neither let him through.

Instead, he was shoved back in quite a rough manner before one of the soldiers stepped up and grabbed him by the front of his cloak and clothes underneath, lifting him slightly off the ground. He put his hands to his side, not wanting to incite violence against or upon himself. He was a beggar, a spy for Washington, but he still kept to as much of his beliefs as possible. He knew that at least his father would be proud of that, if his father was still alive.

“A bit fancy for your kind, eh?” the soldier said, continuing to hold him against the alleyway wall now while his friend batted his hands around him. “Where did you get it, beggar? Who'd you kill?”

“I didn't kill anyone,” he answered. “This was given to me by Mrs. Hudson down by the Bowery.”

“Ey, a politely well-spoken one, ain'tcha?” the soldier manhandling him said, laughing as he and his friend exchanged looks.

“Please let me go,” he asked. “I am just passing through and have no quarrel with you and wish to be on my way.”

“Passing through to where, beggar? Somewhere to steal more coin that you already have squirreled away?” the soldier taunted before making chittering sounds as if to mimic a squirrel but failing quite spectacularly and sounding more like a half-dead songbird. Robert remained silent and after a moment, the soldier said, “There's too many of you in the streets. They'll not miss one less--”

Robert was suddenly dropped to the ground and nearly fell forward and into the soldiers who suddenly flailed as a dark figure dropped in the between the two and clocked their heads together. The soldiers dropped like sacks of potatoes, with their rifles clattering to the ground. Had the ground not been soft with mud, they would have made a louder noise, but didn't.

He blinked in surprise and in shock as his savior from being killed stood up, dusting her hands together as her dark cloak fluttered around her, settling down to cover her plain green dress. She had wheat-colored hair that was tied up in a simple but elegant style and there was a rather impish smile spread across her face. “Always love doing that to people...especially those who least expect it.”

“Um,” he began, but found himself at a loss for words, for it was more the fact that a woman of all people, had clobbered two strong, healthy, and hale-looking British soldiers, and had not reacted the way he expect her to react.

“Come on, help me with them,” she said, taking one of the soldiers by the arms and forcibly dragged the soldier further into the alleyway. Her actions shook him out of his shock as he hurried over and picked up the man. She then directed him to the back stairs of a building, dumping the unconscious man at the door. Retrieving the other soldier, he did the same and wondered what was to happen.

He received his answer shortly as she rapped on the door while he waited to the side. They waited a few moments before the door was yanked open, allowing the heavy scent of floral perfume to waft into the alleyway. A woman, dressed in very suggestive clothing with her face painted in hues that were meant to lure in men to her bed poked her head and half of her body out.

“What do you want, girl?” the woman asked in a very annoyed tone before realizing that he, Robert, was also there, though at the base of the steps, and amended the irritated look on her face with a more pleasant one. Robert gave the whore a thin, humorless smile.

“Eyes, here ma'am,” his rescuer said before taking a small pouch that had most likely been tied around her waist and under the cloak out, jingling it. Like a magpie to shiney objects, the whore's eyes riveted to the pouch as the woman continued to say, “Twenty-five pounds for you to spin a good story to these two gentlemen of the pleasant company they kept with you.”

He could not help but wince slightly as he saw the woman kick the legs of the soldiers lying haphazardly against the door in a none-too-gentle manner. “Done,” the whore answered, almost purring her agreement. “Anything else, dearie?”

“My friend and I were never here, and you never saw us,” the woman said.

“As you wish,” the whore said, stepping back in but leaving the door open so that both of them could hear her calling for her fellow bed sisters to assist her.

“Come on, let's go,” the woman said, as Robert tried to step back up to perhaps help them drag the soldiers in. As much as he detested brothels, he was surprised at the fact that this was a proper one that operated in the city in a building. Unlike the ones that set up tents of sorts wherever there was coin to be had, proper brothels such as these were expensive, and he had heard from his boarding house patrons that brothels in actual buildings were worth their weight in gold.

“Please let go, miss,” he said as the woman attempted to grab him by an arm under the cloak and drag him away from the back entrance of the brothel.

Surprisingly, she let go of his arm, but gestured for him to follow her. Curious, for he could sense no ill intent from her, and the fact that he wanted to know who his savior from the British soldiers were, he followed. When they were sufficiently far enough away, she stopped and turned, giving him the same impish smile she had initially given him.

“You're a very expensive first date, Mr. Robert Townsend,” she stated, though from the tone of her voice, he wasn't sure if she was joking or not. Added to his unease was the fact that she knew his name, though he wasn't sure what a 'date' was.

“I apologize, but do I know you?” he answered, hoping that his voice did not betray his nervousness. “I don't recall hosting any women at my boarding house before. Do you perhaps know of my father?”

“You don't, but I do,” she answered, grinning with ease. “I'm Samantha Tallmadge. I'm from the future and I've been sent by General Washington to help you.”

* * *

_Morristown_

 

The scratching noise of quill upon parchment was the only other thing besides the crackling fireplace that filled the silence in the room. Several days ago, under great reluctance to even allow such an attempt to be done, though he knew that he needed it to be done, Agent Tallmadge had left for New York City. It was she who had insisted with great vehemence that she infiltrate the city to help Culper and the other assets within the city. Washington had not wanted either of the future-women, who had just recovered from their ordeal in Philadelphia, to attempt such a dangerous task, but he had no other trusted person who knew so much to go. Lieutenant Brewster was already in the midst of training some of the men in her and her future US Army's ways of warfare, and to keep the knowledge of what both future-agents had acquired from being known by too many people, especially those outside of Morristown, he had to let her go.

As for Agent Sackett, she was secretly re-infiltrated into Philadelphia to help those assets in the city. Martial law was still somewhat in effect, and even though Washington had received weekly reports from General Greene since the Shippen house incident and the enemy soldiers' attempt at causing riots, he was no fool to know that there were most likely pockets of Director Andre or British enemies still hidden.

The locations of the devices that had brought the future-people had been confirmed, first by the future-naval Commander Creighton, and then by the two agents, who had described to him in detail of what they had experienced. There was a third additional device that Commander Creighton had not accounted for, and it was somewhere within Boston. He was not exactly sure and was still holding onto some disbelief that such a horrifyingly wondrous device existed, but the small cylindrical item that had been attached to the side of the women's heads was a memory device of sorts. It had shown both of them the literal feelings, visions, and experiences that seventeen of America's own assassins sent to kill Director Andre had felt. Interspersed within the strange device were schematics of the device, almost as if someone had deliberately tampered with such a stream of surreal memories.

When the future Major Tallmadge had thrown that strange explosive to render the future weapons useless, that explosive had also rendered the small cylinders inert. That had allowed the two agents to slowly begin their recovery and eventually wake up from their stupor. By the time they had awoken, it was much too late to recall or withdraw any of his orders to the others – it was just as well, for his alternative plans for the Culper Spy Ring were already well underway. The first of those, with help from the two women and the others who were the front for what was hopefully a successful counter-intelligence ploy against the British and Britannian forces, was to ensure that all agents within New York City and Philadelphia were still viable. The second would be to re-verify troop numbers throughout the former thirteen colonies. Beyond that, Washington dared not to make any permanent plans, for once they identified and destroyed the three future-transport devices within Philadelphia, New York, and Boston, whatever advantage each side had in this war for freedom would disappear. The Continental army needed to be ready to quickly march against British forces.

There was a knock at his door before he heard Hamilton's voice say, “General, sir, Theveneau de Francy and a Marquis de Lafayette have arrived at camp.”

The quill stopped of its own accord as Washington glanced up from his writing and placed it back into the inkwell. Surprise colored his countenance, for when de Francy had left for Boston in late November, he had thought the Frenchman was departing and returning to France to see if there had been any updates made in the attempt to negotiate a treaty. That and also to impart news of this Bonaparte character to the French court. He had not expected the Frenchman to return so quickly, and with another man with a name that sounded familiar to his ears.

“Thank you, Alexander,” he said, getting up as his manservant immediately came over and draped the warm cloak around him.

Striding out of the room and down the hall, he was aware that Hamilton kept pace with him, but did not keep wholly to his side, owing to the fact that even in matters such as these, he, Washington, greatly preferred his aides to allow the illusion that he was approachable to their foreign guests. He insisted that displayed appearances differed from the British military and royal court, for what exactly then were they fighting for?

Exiting the warm house and into the wet and bitter cold air that sat heavy around the camp, he saw two finely and warmly dressed men dusting themselves off as their horses were led away from them and to the stables. It was the younger of the two, the Marquis, who stepped forward first, cheeks rosy and flushed with color not entirely painted upon, smiling quite widely.

The Marquis' hands and arms were extended outwards, and Washington met his approach halfway, clasping hands with the young man. “Marquis,” he greeted warmly.

“General,” Layafette answered in equal, though extended that greeting with a rather personable greeting by leaning in a little more and kissing either side of his face. The questionable look that had appeared on his face in such an intimately friendly greeting disappeared by the time the Marquis pulled back – the French were definitely different in terms of expressing their friendliness towards allies, and he was quite glad the missive from Franklin had forewarned him about it. De Francy had not displayed the kind of greeting that Lafayette had shown him, for the man was not ranked in nobility as Lafayette was, but a quick glance over towards the French Intelligence agent told him that all was well.

“I confess, I would have arrived sooner, had we not received strange reports of King Louis' court that caused us to turn back,” Lafayette said.

“The fact that you are now here is all that matters,” Washington answered. “I'm sure that the Monsieur here has briefed you on the strange matters that have gripped our war?”

“Oui,” Lafayette answered, amending his words with, “Yes, Theveneau has. Such strangeness has also gripped ours. A young man by the name of Bonaparte, son of one of our Corsican ambassadors has been insistent on many ideas that mirror those here. He has also met with King Louis many times in these past few months and has managed to convince our King of the necessity of engaging European land and naval forces. While this has certainly tied up England, I am afraid that I bear news that is not the most pleasant of sorts. King Louis has commenced negotiations with Monseiurs Franklin and Adams of the American delegation.”

“Negotiations?” Washington asked, widening his eyes slightly in surprise.

“Oui. With the impressive amount of regulars taken prisoner at Saratoga and the defeat of such enormous forces at Brandywine, you have won admiration of our King and people. But, with Bonaparte and his push to engage England and other nations, our forces must stay more at home. America's ambassadors are still working the details, but the forces that I have sailed with will be all that can be spared for now.”

“And how many is that?” he cautiously asked after a moment's pause.

“Three frigates, all twenty-eight guns. _Cygnet_ , _Loire_ , and _Neptune_. Each carries a full complement of crew and a total of seventy-five infantry men. Fear not, General Washington, these infantry men are half of our King's _Mousquetaires de la Garde_... or how you should say, erm, Musketeers of the Guard. King Louis has charged me to ensure that though we may not be able to send more to assist you, you shall have the _crème de la crème_ in our infantry forces as allies.”

He felt a genuine smile blossom upon his face, and it felt almost foreign to him to have the edges of his lips tug upwards, for it had been such a long time since he had received news that lifted his spirits tremendously. It was not much in terms of bolstering their forces, but seventy-five elite infantry troops under the command of a noble who knew how to drill and fight, along with three strong ships to counter the innumerable sloops and brigs of British forces was better than nothing.

It was another victory against the British, a small one, but an incredibly important one for the war.

 

~*~*~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Historical Note: The Musketeers were disbanded in 1776 due to budgetary reasons, though they were briefly revived in the early 1800s before being disbanded yet again. Obviously, things have changed...


	13. Total War: Revolution Edition (with Expansion Pack!)

**Chapter 13: Total War: Revolution Edition (with Expansion Pack!)**

 

_Boston, home of the salty tea (party)..._

 

The jaunty tune that Caleb whistled as he walked down the crowded, muddy streets of Boston was unfamiliar to any who heard it while he passed them by, but to him, it reminded him of how much his life and circumstances had changed in just over a year. There were still only thirteen states in the declared independence of the United States of America, but he hoped that they would still be able to reach fifty... that is if they won the war for their freedom.

As he rounded the sharp bend in the street, tipping his hat in a greeting along with flashing a smile towards some lovely ladies who had just exited a tailor's store, he saw the grime-covered sign of the Green Dragon Inn swinging lightly with the cold sea breeze just ahead. A larger smile worked its way up his lips as his whistling died and he hurried towards the Inn. It was definitely a home-away-sweet-home for him here in the city.

Initially, both he and Ben had been quartered among the garrisoned army within the city at some dingy (in his opinion) place just north of the Commons. However, due to his extensive stays at the Green Dragon Inn whenever the whaling ship he sailed with back in the day made its port-of-call here, he had a good relation with the owners of the Inn. Thus he had moved both of them to one of the Inn's quarters for a discounted fee that was more than covered by their own personal funds. He was not going to stay in his favorite city in a God-forsaken pit, not while he had the monetary means to sleep under a solid roof and a warm bed.

Entering the Inn, he removed his hat as the raucous sounds of a rather busy and cheerfully lively first floor assaulted his ears. Drinking challenges were being had in at a few tables, while at least one was occupied by men playing a rather mean game of cards. As his eyes strayed over towards the bar, he saw the proprietor, a rather curvy, self-assured woman with dark but greying hair tied up in a simple style, wearing a faded red patterned dress that had certainly seen better days than being doused by ale and vomit from patrons with an apron tied around her waist, wave at him. Her husband was busy sending orders of ale pints down the counter top while hooking a pitcher of wine to his arm, ready to venture out into the open area to refill those at the tables. Wondering what she wanted, he sauntered over, pausing only a moment to flatten himself against the wall to avoid barreling into a drunken patron who seemed to be dancing around to his own music playing in his head.

As soon as he got to the bar, he Leaning against the counter, asking, “Something I can do for you, Mrs. Freeman?”

“Ah, where's your handsome friend, Brewster? That young Tallmadge boy?”

Caleb gave a short bark of laughter before saying, “Eh, Ben's still at the main garrison officers' house talking with the commander.”

A disappointed look flitted across her face for a moment, amusing him even further before it quickly disappeared with her saying, “Well, there are two women waiting to speak with you upstairs, dearie. They're at the furthest corner of the floor to the right, and I've already shoo'ed away any patrons that might bother them. Mother and daughter, I think. The daughter is a very lovely-looking little bird that I just know you'll like.”

“Mother and daughter, eh? Still trying to find me a wife?” he asked, slightly puzzled for he didn't know any mother-daughter pairs who would come to look for him. “Looking for me specifically or for Benny?”

“You're my best customer, Brewster. I just want the best for you. And it's both of you they're looking for to talk to,” she answered. “But since you're here, turn on that saucy and salty charm of yours and win that young woman's heart. Maybe that'll teach the young Tallmadge boy to stop playing with all the young women's hearts who float in and out of my husband's ratty old tavern... especially with his polite 'good mornings or evenings' and 'pardon me's'.”

“But I thought you liked them coming in and out, Mrs. Freeman,” he said, adopting a jesting tone before giving her a wide grin as she glared at him darkly.

“Gordon does,” she answered, throwing an annoyed look towards her husband who was currently navigating around a few chairs and rowdy revelers to deliver his pitcher of wine to a table. “They come in and can't even finish a pint before feeling faint. Sure they bring more men into the tavern, but they're merely there like bees to honey. And we both know who the honey is.”

“Aw, you wound me, Mrs. Freeman,” he said, affecting a mocking looking of horror.

“I'll wound you even more if you don't get up there and win that young woman's heart!” she answered, grabbing a wooden ladle and waving it a bit threateningly. He knew that she meant no harm with it as she continued to say, “Now get, you!”

“Thank you, Mrs. Freeman,” he said as he knuckled his forehead in a half-mocking salute before sauntering away. As he climbed the stairs to get to the quieter second floor, the grin stayed on his face. She knew that he knew the only reason why she was irritated by the rather pretty-looking ladies who constantly flitted in and out of the tavern-inn was because she too somewhat fancied Ben.

Caleb was not the jealous type, and in fact, he found it downright hilarious to see that despite all that had happened, wherever Ben went, a flock of young women seemed to follow. His best friend seemed either knowingly oblivious to that point or was actually oblivious. There was a high point in the matter though – the Inn suddenly became a little more respectable with the patrons that frequented and stayed in the place. If there was a definite positive to all of this, it was the food had become significantly better in recent days because of the quality and amount that Mr. and Mrs. Freeman were able to afford.

Still, it was curious that a mother-daughter pair had specifically asked for both him and Ben, and as he looked around the second floor, there were a few patrons sitting about, quietly talking, but more than a few were shooting furtive looks to the farthest corner on the right side of the tavern. Caleb's eyes eventually settled there too, and who he saw sitting at the table made him uneasy and slightly angry at the same time.

It was not the older woman, Mrs. Elizabeth Sackett, that was causing those feelings, but the younger one, Miss Margaret “Peggy” Shippen of Philadelphia.

His grin disappeared as he approached, wondering how and why the two were here. If Sackett's wife was here in Boston, did that mean that Samantha and Natalie had gotten better or God-forbid, died from whatever strange affliction that they had found the two in at Judge Hancock's house? His unease started to overwhelm the anger as he sat down and forced himself to be as pleasant as possible, given the circumstances. “Howdy,” he said in as casual of a tone as he could. “Mrs. Freeman told me that you wanted to talk to Ben and me?”

“Is he not here?” Mrs. Sackett asked.

“He's still busy with his duties,” he answered, knowing that she was asking about Ben. He would be damned if he gave anything detailed away in the presence of the Shippen girl, for even though she was mighty beautiful and very pleasing to look at, even in such a plain dress and simplistic cloak draped around her soft shoulders, he did not trust her.

She had been remorseful and told them everything that had happened and how she came to be in the service of Director Andre that was more like a hostage situation than servitude, but he was angry at how she had manipulated Ben and toyed with him in her letters. That and also how she had, with Andre's guidance, pieced together orders in both letters that had been sent to General Arnold and Ben for the still-unknown assassin or assassins within the camp.

“Ah, well then,” Mrs. Sackett briskly answered, fishing out two letters. “Please give this one to the Major, and this other one is for you, Lieutenant.”

“You're the last person I expect to see as a courier, Mrs. Sackett,” he said, accepting the letters. “But thanks.”

“You're very welcome, Lieutenant,” she answered. “As for the two women that had been under my care, fear not for they have not passed to be with our Lord and Savior. They have recovered and I'm sure that you'll find details of what has happened since yours and the Major's departure in those letters.”

“Will you be returning to Morristown soon?” he asked after a moment, and despite himself, he could feel the grin return to his face.

Good news was always something that he liked presenting to Ben. The fact that the two women whom he knew that Ben had grown quite fond of, especially if he read his friend correctly that his fondness for Natalie was turning or had turned towards more amorous affections, had recovered was welcomed news. In the past weeks since they had arrived at Boston, he had seen his friend throw himself into the assignment that Washington had given him. It was a way of coping with all that had happened at Philadelphia and at Judge Hancock's house, and despite his attempts to cheer Ben up, even his attempts at jests had fallen quite flat.

“No,” Mrs. Sackett answered, shaking her head slightly. “My duties are to my children and the apothecary shop I run here now, near Faneuil Hall. General Washington has kindly allowed me to bring Miss Shippen here back here to employ her as a governess for my children.”

“Oh,” he said, glancing over towards Shippen, who did not meet his eyes and merely stared at a worn spot on the table. He looked back to Mrs. Sackett and asked, “Will you be needing another blunderbuss or pistol? I have one that I can spare.”

“Thank you for the kind offer, but I do not,” she answered, withdrawing the double-barreled blunderbuss she had carried with her and place it on the table for a moment. “I still have the gift you have given me. And besides, Lieutenant, Boston is a free and protected city. I do not think that the British or Britannia for the matter, would be foolish enough to invade us... they would not survive what is lurking in our harbor.”

“Ah, yeah,” he said after a moment, nodding in understanding, “I had forgotten about our sea monster at the bottom of Boston Harbor.”

To him, it sounded like a perfectly normal statement, but to anyone else passing by and happened to overhear it, they would only attribute it to the ale and a very addled mind. Caleb sometimes wondered what had become of his life, and to say something like that and consider it normal sometimes still astonished him. But such was life, and this war for their freedom had taken a very strange turn indeed.

* * *

_Morristown_

 

“Excuse me, sir, but General Arnold is here to see you.”

Washington looked up from the reports he was currently reviewing against the maps that were laid out on the large table. Both Lafayette and Hamilton, who had been standing off to the side, also perusing and verifying troop placements for both British-Britannia and Continental sides on a smaller-scale map of New Jersey, had also briefly stopped their work.

“Please let him in, William,” he said, taking a step back from the table and clasped his hands behind his back. Though he was pressed to review all troop details from the many saved scouting and Culper reports that spanned from the middle of October until now, he always had a small amount of time to address what his friend and brother-in-arms needed.

His manservant nodded and opened the door to the office. Arnold limped in, assisted by a cane, but looked much healthier than the last time he had seen and talked to him. There was a rosier look upon his cheeks, and he could see no immediate sign of pain etched across his friend's face – it seemed the cane was there only to assist the movement of his shattered and reset leg, which was now an inch or two shorter than his good one.

“Ah, George,” Arnold said, and Washington did not miss the glance over towards Hamilton and Lafayette. It seemed that his friend had not been expecting others in the office. “Do you have a moment to talk in private? There is a rather _delicate_ matter that I wish to address from the last time we talked.”

He considered his friend's request for a moment, knowing that his two aides were not yet finished with their assessments of the New Jersey reports. However, the way Arnold had worded his request made him slightly curious. The man had all but taken in the news of the future-people and of the unfolding situation in Philadelphia with little commentary, and now he wanted to talk about it? It was most curious, for Arnold was the most straightforward man that he knew of and always spoke his opinion without fear of drawing ire from anyone, for he didn't care for politics as he, Washington, did. He had taken the man's relative silence that day in December, last they talked, to mean that he was not going to question the situation.

He glanced over at his aides and said, “If the two of you would please fetch an assessment report from Baron von Stuben about the troops so far, along with his opinion on how Lieutenant Brewster's training methodologies are progressing.”

“As you wish, Excellency,” Lafayette said, cheerfully smiling.

“With pleasure,” Hamilton said at nearly the same time, though Washington knew that the smile that appeared on his senior aide was that of glee. Though it was still very strange to see and hear a woman of all people drilling men – not to mention that there had been stiff resistance to it – Hamilton had been one of the very few to cheerfully accept and begin learning how to utilize the future-rifles. The man's rather overzealous positive attitude towards the weaponry and 'guerrilla' tactics that the US Army employed had brought about a few converts, though most of them had been from the portion of the 2nd Continental Light Dragoons who wintered here.

As soon as the door closed, with William also leaving the room, Washington inclined his head slightly to indicate for his friend to speak. “There was a young woman I had been writing to in Philadelphia,” Arnold began. “I had met her once before and we became reacquainted via letter last autumn when she wrote to me upon hearing of Saratoga and of my injury. There had been rumors of her family since we last spoke, and I heard that she was brought into camp here as a _prisoner_ of all things.”

“You speak of Miss Shippen, am I correct?” he quietly asked.

“Yes!” Arnold ecstatically said, taking a step forward, eyes alight with fire and hope. “She's here, is she not? Why was she brought in under the statues as a prisoner of war?”

He held back the actual words he wanted to say, knowing that it would ruin not only his friend but also their friendship, which he needed now more than ever. He was well aware from corresponding with the future-Major Tallmadge, of what 'history' had said Arnold had done after the taking of Fort Westpoint, but that was 'history' no longer in the making. The Shippen woman had been virtually defanged of whatever poison Major Andre had wielded through her with the closure of the Philadelphia incident. He no longer had to worry over Arnold's allegiance when there was nothing to worry about.

Instead, he said, “Miss Shippen is no longer present at camp. She was released under the care of the wife of one of my most trusted advisers and has taken a position as governess. If you wish to write her, I can have one of the couriers deliver your letter to her, but I will not be discussing any further details of the circumstances that brought her to here.”

“I,” Arnold began, but Washington did not flinch or look away from his friend, and instead, watched a myriad of emotions flit across him. “When will your courier depart?”

“As soon as your letter is ready to be delivered, my friend.”

* * *

_New York City_

 

“How could you just toss away an asset?”

“What ever do you mean, Major?”

Incredulous at such a flippant tone that his counterpart had taken in response to his question, Andre took a few deliberate steps forward, well aware that Deputy Director Simcoe was watching him with hawkish eyes. “Miss Shippen was well-placed within Philadelphia, and according to what you've told us, was in direct communication with _both_ General Arnold and Major Tallmadge! What on earth possessed you to waste such a resource?! I thought our goal... British and Britannia goals was to win this war. Lee was, is, a liability that we can no longer afford to use, especially not with rumors of his vehement petition to their illegal Congress to remove General Washington from command. I thought Arnold was to be our way in!”

“And he still is,” his counterpart answered, though Andre could hear the condescension in the man's tone. “Philadelphia confirmed my hypothesis as to who exactly from the rebels' side had been transported to this era, and thus I had to cut my losses. Shippen is too well known by Agent Sackett and the others to be the key instrument in turning Arnold. They have also most likely informed Washington about Arnold's future betrayal and Lee's attempts to discredit Washington himself. To win this war, we must create new scenarios, introduce new players and circumstances into this game of spy versus spy.”

“Such as what?” he asked, frowning. “Lee's credibility and popularity among the Continentals for 'escaping' British captivity has had him commanding quite a lot of attention. Your 'suggestion' for that Elizabethtown meeting has only caused Washington to suspect him even further. With Miss Shippen gone, our way into having the man's most trusted friend betray him has also disappeared. No other general within his command staff commands the popularity or respect that either two men has. Your short-shortsightedness has cost us this war!”

“Director,” Deputy Director Simcoe spoke up in a polite and cautious tone as Andre glared at his counterpart, cold anger filling him and fueling his irritation and frustration at what meticulous planning had been undone in less than a month. “If I may say something?”

“Do so,” the Director dismissively said. “It seems that my expectations of intelligence and forward planning from my forebearer were set too high.”

Andre ignored the jab and continued to glare at his counterpart as the Deputy Director said, “In the past weeks, we've received word from our spies within the Morristown camp that Major Tallmadge has been dismissed as Washington's Head of Intelligence. Our spies were not able to confirm the exact circumstances behind the dismissal, but the given likely scenario is that the Elizabethtown meeting was the cause of the dismissal. There are also reports that the French have entered into an alliance with the rebels, but due to our manipulation of events within the European hemisphere, the Napoleonic Wars are starting a little earlier than planned. France will not be able to fully back the Continental Army.”

“But they still can,” he spoke up, shaking his head slightly. “And how does that help us?”

“Britain pulled out of Philadelphia solely because of France's involvement in the war. That is how we eventually lost that city, New York, and control of all of the northeast in about a year or so. Because Britain pulled their forces to the Caribbean... sorry, you call them West Indies, to save those assets instead of fully committing them to keep them in New York City. Keeping France mostly out of this hemisphere and focused on Europe will keep them from sending comparable navies against us as we move our troops safely out of New York and other regions under our control.”

“Then why not just assassinate Washington right now and be done with it? Why prolong this war? What are you to gain from it? Surely your men inside of his camp are not that incompetent.”

“Haste makes waste, Major,” the Director said, his tone completely condescending. “We can assassinate him on a whim, but he is being watched much too closely by elements of the Culpeper and Culper ring. He knows there is danger within his camp. What we need now is to draw his paranoia out further, to isolate him until his own madness and distrust grows enough that he pushes everyone away. The higher you set a beloved commander on the golden pedestal, the harder they will fall.”

Andre took a deep breath, his tolerance and patience for such belittling stretched quite thin as his counterpart clasped his hands behind his back and continued to say, “You will order Lee to lay low for now, to keep his obedience to Washington. Whet his appetite with the fact that once we send the most unexpected assassin within Washington's midst and kill him, General Lee will now be in charge of the Continental Army.”

“I will,” he reluctantly agreed, “but know this. I will not stand for any more deception from my maidservant or Anna Strong. Both have now outlived their usefulness to me and to the deception of this Culper Ring. If you wish to drive Washington's paranoia to the extreme, he must know of the failure of his Ring. Dismissal of his Head of Intelligence is one thing, the other is to utterly crush his spirit and hope that he can take New York City or win the war for the matter.”

“Perceptive, and I must say, it is a very inspired idea,” Simcoe spoke up before the Director could. “I would agree to it in principal, but, I still have not yet extracted the necessary information from Mrs. Strong's descendant. I do believe that it may take more time, but might I suggest that we capture Mrs. Strong in order to force Agent Strong to divulge his secrets?”

“Your ancestor has made it no secret that he harbors strong feelings for Anna Strong, Jonathan,” the Director stated. “Might you be doing this to save your own self from his wrath or do you harbor the same carnal instincts and lust after that woman as him?”

Andre saw a thin smile appear on the Deputy Director's face, eerily similar to the one he had seen on his own era's Simcoe in the brief times that he interacted with the man. As unnerving as it was to see such a blank, utterly devoid of emotion kind of expression, he kept it from showing on his face. “I continually find it quite offensive, Director, that you keep comparing me to that beastly ancestor of mine,” Simcoe said. “I merely want information that Agent Strong has, and I have already exhausted all other options short of killing his betrothed and putting an end to our assassination attempt on Washington. I do hate wasting what little resources we have here. The capture of Mrs. Anna Strong may help us leverage that information.”

Andre cleared his throat. “As for my maidservant, what is her significance to the Culper Ring at this juncture?”

“Fodder,” the Director answered. “Pure utter fodder at this juncture. You may do as you wish with her if you so wish to increase Washington's paranoia.”

“Thank you,” he stiffly answered.

Since receiving the news that Abigail was a member of the Culper Ring last year, he had been quite hurt by the deception that she had played against him. He had thought she was honest and sincere with her words towards him before all of this. However, there were truths to her story, especially about her son being forced to stay in Setauket that caused him to not completely dismiss her deception. She had already suffered enough cruelty at the hands of those now governing Setauket, but he could not abide by an enemy spy working in his household.

One way or another, despite the distaste that it left in his mouth, Agent 355 had to go.

“Now, Jonathan,” the Director said, tapping an exceptionally clear glass pane on the table that they stood around. A rather fancy-looking map of the eastern seaboard of the continent sprang forward, complete with small clusters of blue and red that indicated troops numbers and their locales. “I need you to draft letters with the Major's help here--”

“How?” Andre interrupted, as his counterpart made a few gestures with his hands and fingers on the pane to zoom in to the tri-colony region of New York, Connecticut, and New Jersey. “If you want me to continue to draft letters to British High Command, I need to know how you plan on turning Arnold to our cause.”

“We sent Captain Simcoe to apply some pressure on Arnold's sons,” Simcoe answered.

“Civilians?!” he nearly shouted the word, dumbfounded that such stupidity had encompassed those who worked down here. “You're involving civilians now?! Are you mad?!”

“No,” the Deputy Director answered in a tone that was meant to book no argument. “Just practical. Shippen was a much too volatile of a pawn to be used. Arnold may have been enamored of her, but holding someone that is their most dear to the heart is what guarantees someone to become a turncoat. And before you state that why don't we just go after all known Culper Ring spouses and families, no, we won't do that unless absolutely necessary. That and also finding spouses of the unmarried members of the Culper Ring will take too much time and resources – we cannot pinpoint whether or not the actions of the past year have caused them to move to other places or identify them by sight since most of them have not commissioned portraits. We target Arnold's family because he also has debts that they're trying to work and pay off and he is also being shorted on pay by Congress. That and the threat of his immediate family in danger is a potent and powerful combination.”

“Arnold only,” he stated, quite incensed that the two would even attempt to do something like this when he knew that they knew full well that involving unassuming civilians within battles was dangerous. Should word get out to the rebel printing presses, then even the Tories would be up in arms and falsely accusing the British dealing atrocities to civilian populations. “No more.”

“For now,” Simcoe said, giving him a thin smile full of teeth.

“Arnold only, gentlemen,” he insisted. “I will not have my name or British High Command marred in such a fashion. I don't care if the future holds us in contempt, I will not have the history books paint a picture of Britain being such savages to our colonies!”

The two remained silent for a few long moments before the Director returned their attention to the map, saying, “These letters, are to indicate that plan a massive move against Washington's camp at Morristown...”

* * *

_Somewhere in the burnt section of NYC..._

 

“Pardon me again, but I find it a little hard to believe that you're from the future, miss,” Robert said as he and the bright-eyed, lovely-looking young woman sat around the tiny campfire, draping moth-eaten blankets and tattered cloaks around themselves to keep warm in this chilly winter night.

It was not here by choice that he wanted to wait, for it was quite exposed to the cold, and he was properly paranoid that any person who passed by could hear them. However, she had insisted that they wait here, citing that it was easier for them to blend in and the lack of constant British patrols that they had to watch out for. He had not told her about the small cellar that he, Woodhull, and Anna worked in, for he did not quite trust her yet, even though she had saved his life.

“Whiz-bang gizmos and gadgets don't define the future,” she explained in a rather cheerful tone. “Neither do the people. We still look like what you look like, and for the purposes of blending in and not causing a scene, I'm dressed the way I dress. Besides, it should have been obvious from the get-go that my mannerisms are wholly different from typical ladies of this era.”

“They mostly are,” he agreed, “but I have met one or two thieves who do not act lady-like. Circumstances of their birth within the city dictated how they grew up.”

“True,” she answered, inclining her head slightly. “But, regardless, 711 received your message, and I was sent to provide help. I'm also here to assess just how compromised the entire Ring is.”

“And he still wants us to provide information, knowing what he knows?” he asked, dubious.

“He means to utilize all of you in counter-intelligence operations,” she said. “Because there is a very good chance that British forces know who exactly you and the others are, they will seek or have already been seeking to utilize at least Culper or Anna as double agents. They haven't found you yet, so you're still our safest bet for accurate intelligence. Washington wants to turn the tables on the British, so therefore, it's best that you do not mention anything that I've said thus far to either of them, or to 355.”

“355?” he asked. “Who is that?”

“An agent deeply embedded within Major John Andre's household staff. She runs the highest risk of being exposed as a traitor, but so far, none of the Gazettes have mentioned any hangings or capture of spies.”

“Yes, it is strange, now that you mention it,” he said, nodding. “But I am surprised that women are allowed to become spies in the future. It is already dangerous enough that Mrs. Strong and this Agent 355 are risking their lives for such a task. I'm even further surprised that spying is still a necessity.”

“It's always a necessity, Townsend,” she said, frowning. “And in four hundred years that separate your era from mine, society has changed... a lot. I do hope that you can at least swallow some prejudices and preconceptions about what I represent in order to work together to win this war.”

It was going to be hard for him to let go the fact that he thought women should not be involved in such business, but with the knowledge that Washington had already acknowledged the compromise of both Woodhull and Anna, he knew that he could not turn away help. He wasn't happy with how the help was being presented, but at the moment, he had no choice but to grudgingly accept it. He opened his mouth to at least try to vocalize some dispelling of the notion, but heard the crunch of footsteps on the ground, trampling over ice-covered kindling interrupted him.

Moments later, a swinging lantern illuminating Woodhull's face was seen as the man turned into the little niche where he and Washington's agent were sitting. “Woodhull,” he quietly acknowledged as the man peered at them to visually confirmed that he was indeed in the correct area. Robert had been deliberately vague as to where exactly they were in this burnt husk of a portion of the city, and he briefly wondered just how long it had taken the farmer to search for them.

“Dammit, Townsend,” Woodhull stated a bit angrily, “you could have chosen a smaller area to meet, say like--”

“We have a guest, Woodhull,” he interrupted the man before their secret hideout could be revealed, gesturing to the young woman who sat before him. He could only assume that Woodhull had thought that the other person was Anna.

“Uh,” Woodhull began as Townsend saw Tallmadge turn and stuck a hand out to give a small wave under the layers of blankets that she had wrapped around her.

“Hi,” she chirped. “It's been a while since we last met.”

“You....” he heard the farmer begin but trail off, shaking his head before grimacing as he took a seat at the campfire. “The last time I saw you, Setauket was about to explode into a bloodbath. Tell me that both Major Tallmadges aren't here either... please.”

“Nope,” she answered a bit too cheerfully. “They're not. You just got me here, courtesy of General Washington.”

“So she is from the future, Woodhull?” Robert asked. He knew of the circumstances that precluded Woodhull and Anna's migration into New York, but it was only because their hometown of Setauket had been successfully occupied by Continental forces that the two made the decision to infiltrate the city as supposed loyalists. It was only to continue their work for Washington, despite the insanity that drove British troops from Setauket.

“Yes,” Woodhull said, though Robert thought he heard some testiness in his tone. “And what's this about General Washington sending you? Is he about to invade New York?”

“Not quite yet, Woodhull,” she answered. “I would like to not repeat myself twice over, so if we could wait for Mrs. Strong...?”

“I haven't seen her since early this evening when she left to go run a quick errand,” Woodhull said, shaking his head slightly. “I think she did get the message though. It's nearing ten, and if I stay out any longer, my wife and father are going to start to get more suspicious than they already are. Assuming you're staying here for a while, you'll just have to tell her later.”

“Well, that's also why I chose this place,” he supplemented, “you have lobster backs on you constantly, so loosing them in such a place like this is conducive to our work. But I digress. Miss Tallmadge, if you would please?”

“All right,” she said, her expression changing to a serious one as he heard her tone become brisk and no-nonsense like. “Washington is preparing the troops to move against Generals Cornwallis and Clinton. I'm here to help finalize the troop counts and collect a detailed map of the city. You won't be dropping the last packets in the hollow... I'm going to be bringing it with me. As soon as he gets the numbers, you can be sure that he'll begin the campaign within weeks. From that time forward until the surrender of the city by a show of arms, you have to get yourselves and your loved ones out.”

“And what if a siege happens? What then?”

“All the more to getting yourselves out before it happens. Given what you know and saw last spring, Woodhull, and the intelligence you've brought for Washington, there's a good chance that the armies of Britain and Britannia are combined. Washington has done the same to his armies.”

“Oh, so he can march on it bearing guns, cannons, and other weaponry that I can't even begin to comprehend?! Did you not see the area we're sitting in, Tallmadge?!” Abe exploded in anger. “Do you not see how many civilian lives will be lost if another siege happens? Setauket--”

“Was a mistake,” Tallmadge answered. “We were never supposed to have taken that town! Mass exposure to the weaponry that we carry from the future was never supposed to have happened. Washington will not risk the lives of civilians if he can help it, which is why we need a final count and accurate layout of the city, so that _if_ he is forced to march upon it, civilian casualties will be minimized.”

Woodhull was silent for a very long moment, looking quite irritated at the young woman. While he, Robert, felt himself shift uneasily at Tallmadge's words. Woodhull's description of the weaponry that the future-people brought with them was just that, but seeing how the man reacted to just the mere thought of the future-weapons being brought upon the city...

“I'll have Washington's numbers and city plan, Tallmadge,” Woodhull said after a moment, anger still evident in his tone. “I'll make sure they're accurate. Townsend will too. And so will Anna and Abigail. I don't care if its Continentals, British, or Britannian forces. New York is _not_ going to burn again.”

* * *

_February_

 

_I don't care what the boarding house master says, she's been gone too long for her 'errand' to be an errand outside of the city_ , he thought to himself as he let go of the rope and landed on the muddy ground of the well. Taking the lantern that had been hanging on his side, Abraham held it forward and proceeded down the long tunnel.

It had been a few days since that meeting with the woman from the future, Samantha Tallmadge, and since that day, either it was a coincidence or not, he had not seen Anna anywhere. Hewlett had mentioned off hand to Abe's father that the owner of the boarding house had mentioned that Anna was running an errand outside of the city, which was how Abe had found out about Anna's absence. However, after two weeks, even Hewlett was getting concerned, and Abe even more so, since there had been no sign of Anna's former maidservant, Abigail around the markets he knew she frequented, either.

Townsend had sent a few of his beggar mates out to look for both women, but they had returned with no news. Tallmadge had also assisted Townsend with searching for both women, but since her duties were more towards preparing the final reports for Washington before spring arrived, she was focused more on that. Finally, Abe had enough of running around the city, looking as discreetly as possible into homes that he was able to, and decided to chance it and go down to a source he did not trust as far as he could throw, but knew that the man was at least reliable in gathering data.

Earthen walls soon turned into smooth ones, and his lantern light was gradually replaced with brighter lights that shone from above as he transitioned between the underground tunnel of the well and into the future underground facility. Like before, two guards, bearing arms that were not of his world and wearing uniforms that were definitely not of this time, appeared on either side of him as he continued down the pristine halls. They unnerved him, but he tried not to jump when they appeared, though there was a slight hitch to his stride before he recovered and continued to walk.

He was soon escorted into a room that contained four bland and too-smooth walls that contained a rather small circular table of sorts and two chairs. Sitting on the further of the two chairs was the man he wanted to see. As soon as his escorts left, he began without preamble, “Where's Anna Strong?”

“My dear Mr. Woodhull,” Deputy Director Simcoe answered, tenting his fingers together as he rested his elbows on the table. “No hello, or good day, or any greeting of the sort? How utterly rude.”

“I'm not here for your games, Simcoe,” he said, irritation clouding his tone. “Where's Anna? She's been gone from New York for nearly two-and-a-half weeks. No one has seen her and no one can find her. And for the matter, where is Abigail, her former maidservant. The one you may know as 355. Where are they?”

“I honestly do not know,” the man answered, standing up. “I haven't been to the surface since that day when I sold you the toy horse. No new prisoners have been left in my care, and I'm still trying to find out what happened to Lucas Brewster and Reverend Tallmadge. So no. I. Do. Not. Know.”

“Prove it,” he challenged, daring not to tell the man of the fates of Lucas Brewster and Reverend Tallmadge. Samantha had informed him of their fates, and could only speculate that the two had somehow ended up around the Philadelphia region. Abe had not told her about his own theories with regards to the underground area he was now traversing in. To him, the fact that the two men had been under the so-called care of Deputy Director Simcoe shone unfavorably on whatever sliver of trust he had extended to the man before.

“Are you so willing to challenge me here in my own home, Mr. Woodhull?” Simcoe asked, frowning slightly. “When I clearly have guards who could kill you?”

“Yes, only because I know you won't kill me, at least not yet. Prove that you don't have her or 355 in your little menagerie of horrors you call cells.”

“While your bravery is admirable, I will acquiesce to your request,” the man answered, gesturing for him to follow. With great reluctance, Abe followed Simcoe through another entrance that had slid open on the far side of the room. Together, the two of them traveled down the halls until they arrived at a familiar-looking place.

The cell in which he had seen the two Setauket men held captive in last year was empty but still contained streaks of dried blood and other unmentionables within – as if the men had been suddenly taken away without warning and no one bothered to clean up the area. Perhaps there was merit to the Deputy Director's story in not knowing where or the fates of the Reverend and Brewster. But Abe was not going to place a heavy wager on that.

The other two occupants in this area, Abigail Woodhull and Andrew Strong, were still in their respective cells, though he was glad to see that the wooden bracers that had been on his descendant's legs were removed. The young woman still had a faraway look in her eyes, but was now lying motionless on what he could only assume to be a sleeping pallet. Strong, on the other hand, was sitting on the floor of his cell, head tucked into his chest with his legs drawn up and arms wrapped around his legs.

Except for a strange flicker of the light in one of the cells, to which he didn't know what to attribute it to, all other cells in the area were completely empty. The Deputy Director was actually telling the truth.

“Now that you're here,” Simcoe spoke up, startling him out of his reverie, “I no longer have to take trips up to pass on pieces of the map of this place.” He saw the man withdraw a small sheaf of parchment and hand it over to him.

Taking it, he flipped through the sheaf, noting that it was larger pieces of the map put together that had not been cut down to size yet. “What about the guards?” he asked as he tucked the pieces into a pocket within his coat and flattened it down enough so that it did not bulge or look suspicious.

“Those two who met you three times now are loyal to me,” the man answered. “I'm surprised that you didn't notice them.”

“They all look the same to me,” he answered, giving the man a thin smile.

“Study the map Woodhull, and plan the escape route. I will try to get both of them as far as I can from this place, but you're responsibility lies in getting them out of the city. Might I suggest that we plan for their jailbreak somewhere in early spring? I have it on good authority that Director Andre will definitely not be present in the city and neither will Major Andre. There is apparently something quite large being planned for the continuation of Generals Clinton and Cornwallis' Philadelphia campaign.”

“Not without knowing where Anna, Abigail, Reverend Tallmadge, and Lucas Brewster are,” he said, frowning.

“I told you, I do not know where they are. I am trying to find them, but I have limited resources myself and if I try to pour more in, my own cover here is in jeopardy. I will most definitely try to locate Mrs. Strong, since it is vital that we cannot allow them to use her as leverage, but for the others...”

“Fine,” he said after a moment, deciding to also not reveal that Washington had plans of his own to possibly force the British out of the city by a show of force. If that could happen _before_ the plan to break the two captive agents out, then it would make it easier on him to get the two to safety. That and also he still didn't fully trust Simcoe.

He also didn't want to reveal the fact that Washington had managed to infiltrate another agent to re-verify the numbers for New York. He wasn't happy about the presence of the future-woman working with them, but if Simcoe's numbers proved to be correct by Tallmadge's count, then perhaps then, he would apologize for doubting the man. For now, he at least had some small crumb of information about what may happen to British forces when spring arrived to pass on.

~~~

Major John Andre breathed a sigh of relief as the strange-looking door to the cells in this underground area slid close, taking Agent 722 Samuel Culper, or better known to him as Abraham Woodhull of the Culper Spy Ring away. However, before he could fully relax his tight grip on Anna Strong, whom had unexpectedly woken up in her own cell just before Deputy Director Simcoe and Woodhull had entered the cell area, he thought he saw the air around Simcoe flicker slightly.

It was not an illusion or trick of his eyes as he saw the Deputy Director suddenly get slammed up and into the glass pane of one of the cells. His head was angled up as if there was an arm pushing under his chin, and one of his arms was tucked at an awkward angle against his body while the other was raised in a manner that suggested someone was holding it against the glass. Andre tightened his hold around Anna mouth and upper body a little more as he felt her squirm to try to get free.

Both of them were behind a what Simcoe had termed an 'illusionary projection' that gave the viewer on the other side of the cell the image of a blank cell. While it worked, it only worked for those lying or standing still. None of them had expected Strong to wake up after being knocked out by a strange drug that the man had given him to give her to keep her in a constant state of sleep for the duration Woodhull's visit. Andre had managed to slip into the cell and keep her still moments before Simcoe and Woodhull had arrived.

Now though, he heard a muffled voice say something, but it was the clear answer from the Deputy Director who scoffed, “My plans? My plans align with yours for now, and that is to put a stop to this madness... to stop this crossing of eras.”

Something else was asked by the muffled voice as he saw Simcoe give a bark of absurd laughter in almost a mocking manner, saying, “Do you not see that it was I who placed those data images into that memory device? That it was I who gave you and the others the key to stopping him? Who else do you know has as close to an access to the Director than I?”

Words again. “Why? To keep them safe from as much of the the Director's machinations as possible. I want to see them released as much as you do, my dear--” Simcoe's head suddenly snapped to the side, as if he had been viciously slapped by the invisible hand that had been holding his arm against the glass “--ow. I see that you still haven't forgiven me.”

More words, and this time it was quite a long tirade, Andre had to assume. But moments later, he saw whatever invisible person that had been holding Simcoe against had let go, allowing the man to straighten himself. “I'll take them to Morristown myself if I have to,” Simcoe said out loud, though to Andre, it looked as if he were speaking to air and looking generally quite mad. “We may be on opposite sides, but even I do not condone the Director's behaviors or actions as of late. We are in agreement for now, yes?”

It seemed that whatever had been negotiated in those strange words, especially since he had only heard the one-sided conversation was agreed upon by the invisible person. Silence reigned in the area as he saw the Deputy Director stroll to the entrance to the cell area and allow the door to slid open. It was held open for a few moments before he stepped away and took a small object out of the inside of his jacket pocket.

Andre thought he heard a buzzing sound but that was quickly quashed as something sparked near the window of the cell he was in like a blacksmith taking a hammer to a heated piece of iron. It looked like whatever had been triggered caused the 'illusionary projection' to fail as Simcoe strode up to him and tapped on the window before indicating something above. Had Andre not been in and out of this area often enough, he wouldn't have know that they pumped a sort of spray into the air in the cells to cause their captives to fall asleep.

He let Anna go and quickly exited the cell, slamming the door close before she could recover. Had he not been down here enough in the past few months, he would have thought that seeing invisible people, structures that defy modern conventions of his time, and many other such wonders as delirium. Now, nearly nothing surprised him anymore. The faint sound of something hissing filled the chamber, but he was not there to listen to all of it as he made his way to the Deputy Director. He was curious as to what had happened and when he entered the cell area, he found the man standing near Abigail Woodhull's cell, staring at her with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Such a shame that it has to come to this,” he heard him murmur, though there was absolutely no sign of sympathy within the man's tone.

“Who was that?” he questioned.

“A Culpeper agent,” Simcoe answered in a curt tone. “It seems that General Washington has successfully infiltrated one into the city and that agent is most likely here to assess the truth of the numbers that I've given Woodhull. Washington must mean to invade New York come spring. It is a good thing that you have Cornwallis and Clinton convinced of the plan otherwise.”

“Which comes at considerable expense to my own reputation should it not happen,” he pointed out. “I thought you were working _for_ British-Britannia interests.”

“I am,” the man answered. “I always am. I just find Director Andre's methods distasteful and maddening. He's gone too far this time, and this is the only way I know how to stop him, short of a full Britannia surrender, which will not happen. Once the Director is disposed of, then we shall see about bringing a swift peace upon not only this land but also upon the future. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” he said, nodding. He had to admit, he had been quite taken in with the fact that his counterpart had such brilliant ideas and plans, but since the Philadelphia debacle, he was not sure what exactly the man's plans were other than to achieve total and utter chaos without regards to the lives of those underneath him. “You play your part, I play mine. Together, we shall ensure that Britain and Britannia prevails without the unnecessary cost of lives.”

“To have Washington and his forces attempt to stop the Director and this ridiculous merging of eras is like killing two birds with one stone,” Simcoe murmured. “An excellent idea for all to benefit from. Once it succeeds, you shall have your war unmarred by laser rifles and the like, and we shall have ours without the risk of killing ancestors.”

“Then what is the point of keeping Mrs. Strong captive?”

“Her descendant has information that I need,” the Deputy Director said. “Buried within Agent Andrew Strong's mind is the actual location of the time transportation devices in Phildelphia, Boston, and New York. The man was the Director's former personal assassin within MI6 before he turned rogue. Either the Director placed a trigger for him to completely forget, or something else is blocking his memories. But without the actual location, taking over the cities to stop the Director and his madness is worthless. I'm hoping that Anna Strong will be that trigger for him to remember.”

“And if the Director gets to her first?” he asked.

“Well... I'll leave that to you, Major. After all, I didn't see a declaration of spy being plastered on the Gazettes for Culper Agent 355. Where is she, by the way?”

“Safe for now,” he evasively answered. “Just like you, I see a usage for enemy agents, though I have yet to determine what usage Abigail can be after her betrayal of my trust. But, should you not be here if the Director decides to 'recruit' Mrs. Strong, I shall sequester her and her descendant away to a safer area. You have my word.”

“Don't sequester, just make sure he does not turn her into what he's turned Culpeper Agent 722 into. He expects that assassination attempt on Washington to happen.”

“Ah, I see. And why have you not told Woodhull or this Culpeper agent who followed him in?”

“As I told you, I am working solely for British-Britannia interests,” Simcoe answered. “That does not preclude me from taking advantage of anything that might help either party win the war, including taking advantage of this madness that the Director has made and creating a divergence from history with the successful assassination of General George Washington.”

* * *

_Early Spring, 1778, Morristown_

 

“... and don't touch that particular piece in the rifle, or else you run the risk of smudging the housing that contains crystal, which can cause the laser intensity to be less than optimal. That means whenever you shoot, its not going to pack as much of a punch as usual. You might just light some kindling instead of disintegrating flesh and bone.”

Washington watched with interest and with slight amusement as US Army Lieutenant Carrie Brewster pointed to a very small object within the half-disassembled advanced rifle on the table. Her descriptive words about what exactly the rifles could do to a man were disturbing, but he kept silent, for the words were effective enough to show just how dangerous the weapons were. Hamilton's own advanced rifle was also in the same state, and he watched his aide nod quite sagely before lifting his rifle up and peered at it before setting it back down. On the other side of the table stood another aide by the name of John Laurens, and Lafayette. Both had curious looks upon their faces but stood with their hands behind their backs, as if afraid to touch the parts from the rifles.

“Is there a way to clean it, if it is dirtied?” Hamilton asked, utterly fascinated.

“Yeah, uh, yes, sir, but its difficult,” Brewster said, scratching the back of her head for a moment. “You're better off--”

At that moment, there was the distinct pounding of hurried feet down the hall and not a second later, the door to the office burst open as the guardsmen entered, surrounding a wounded and haggard-looking soldier. “General, sir,” the young soldier said, as the guards tried to prevent him from going any further. “Trenton and Princeton are burning!”

* * *

_A few days later, Connecticut..._

 

“Cozy spot to make camp,” Ben heard Caleb murmur as various men and a few women dressed in the motley colors of Continentals, US Army, and Rogers's Rangers milled about. Somewhere in the middle of Ben's deployment to Boston, Tallmadge and the others had relocated from North Fairfield to Stratford.

A few of the combined forces that had been acting as lookout and guard to this flat area in the hills that surrounded the coastal valley of the Housatonic River stood alert and merely gave both him and Caleb nods of acknowledgment as they passed by and further into the camp unheeded. The river itself ran by this little area, but they were about 7 miles upriver from the mouth, according to the strange-looking compass-map of sorts that Caleb's robotic horse provided from within a compartment. The area was surrounding by a thick spread of trees but had easy access to fishing and whaling boats from the little fishing houses that dotted either side of the river in this part of Stratford.

Unfortunately, the first officer they encountered was not one of his counterpart's lieutenants, but rather, Bradford, who was in the midst of walking through the camp when he just happened to glance over at them at the right time to see them approach. “Tallmadge,” Bradford acknowledged in a neutral tone, narrowing his eyes slightly.

Despite the antagonism he had towards Bradford, especially since neither had spoken to each other since that fight over the abominable pamphlet, Ben felt a slight wince of sympathy for the man. The major had not been as exposed as he or Caleb had been to all of the future-people, and thus must have had a difficult time adjusting to the circumstances at first. However, as quick as that sympathetic feeling came, it was roughly quashed as he halted his horse and swung himself off. Removing his helmet, he tucked it under an arm as one of the enlisted Continentals came over to take both his and Caleb's horses away...well in the case of his horse, it would be fed and watered. For Caleb's, since it was one of those robotic horses, it was probably going to be led somewhere else to replenish its strength.

“Bradford,” he answered in the same tone, before he noticed that there were new epaulets on the man's shoulders. “Sir,” he belatedly tacked on. “Congratulations on your promotion to Lieutenant Colonel. I'm sure your competence in keeping these parts of Connecticut was well-deserved in the face of this long winter past.”

Though he could read some smugness within the man's expression, the officer looked a little more nervous than he would have thought otherwise. Even though there were other enlisted men of the three factions milling about, Ben could not tell what was making Bradford uneasy. Had he actually said something wrong to the man? He found that train of thought absolutely absurd.

The officer looked as if he wanted to bolt and continue to walk wherever he was already going towards, but at the last second, decided against it as Ben heard him state, “The General has called for a briefing with all officers.”

It took Ben a moment to remember that his counterpart had been brevetted to generalship by his own military chain of command, and though he remembered that his counterpart absolutely hated it, it seemed that he had grown to accept such a bestowment of rank. If that was what Bradford was nervous about, then it was nothing that he had to worry about – in fact, he found that quite hilarious. It was as if Bradford was being incredibly careful and cautious around both him and Caleb, all the for the sake of the fact that he looked like his counterpart. However, there were small physical differences between him and his counterpart, especially with the fact that his counterpart had grown and wore a neatly-trimmed beard. That and also the uniform... at least he hoped that his counterpart had returned to wearing the BDUs and not a Continental uniform. It was already enough that they looked similar – two nearly identical-looking Ben Tallmadges wearing Continental uniforms was not conducive to ordering the soldiers around if they got into a skirmish.

“Well,” he said, keeping his tone as brisk as possible, betraying none of his thoughts and he hoped none of his irritation at the man, “best not keep the General waiting.”

Bradford was silent, though Ben elbowed Caleb in the side to keep him from supplementing his words with any ill-timed quip, for as much as he disliked Bradford, there was a time and place to air grievances. Now was not the time. He caught Caleb's disappointed look at him and heard him sigh, but ignored it as he followed Bradford to where the main tent was in the camp.

Though he was still sore about the fact that Washington had dismissed him from his post as Head of Intelligence, his time in Boston had allowed him to come to terms with that fact. He knew that he had completely botched his handling of the Ring, and knew that it was because of him and the pressure that he had placed on both Anna and Abe that the two ended up where they were now. He had put them in danger, and he accepted the responsibility that their lives was forfeit in the eyes of his commander. That had not meant that they were forfeit in his own eyes, but with the good possibility that Washington intended on marching upon New York, there was a chance to slip in and rescue his agents. He had not given up on that yet, and had prayed to God that they would survive until he and Caleb could get to them.

Then, his prayers had been somewhat answered with a letter that Caleb had handed to him in one day in late January. It had contained double-encrypted news from Sackett about happenings at Morristown, and a single, subtly affectionate sentence from Natalie. It had lifted his spirits to see that both she and Samantha had fully recovered from whatever had afflicted them. Those spirits had been slightly dampened with the news that they were sent by Washington into Philadelphia and New York, respectively.

He took heart in the fact that Washington had decided the best course of action was to re-verify details from Abe and the others. While they would not be ex-filtrated from the city, he was confident that Samantha would do her best to protect them. Perhaps his commander was not as heartless with spies as he had thought he was while in anger and despair. And perhaps his commander was much more shrewd that he gave him credit for, for though it was not stated in Sackett's letter, Natalie's infiltration into Philadelphia would hopefully give that branch of the Culper Ring some much needed training in countryside espionage.

Ben mentally shook himself out of his thoughts as they entered the main planning tent, only to see two lieutenants under Tallmadge's command, along with Rogers, an officer – captain – under Bradford's command, and surprisingly, Sergeant Davenport under his own command present. “Sergeant,” he greeted the enlisted man, whom he had seen last at Morristown. He wondered if the portion of the 2nd Continentals that had wintered in Morristown were also here.

“Sir,” the man answered, nodding. “General Washington sent us up two weeks ago.”

Ben tilted his head slightly to the side in acknowledgment as the enlisted man fell silent, noticing that Tallmadge had looked up from perusing the map on the table. “Glad to see that you've made it, Major,” Tallmadge said, surprising Ben with just the amount of authority contained in the tone from just those simple words. Gone was the jesting, relaxing tone; replaced by a quality that prickled the tiny hairs on Ben's neck. The tone in which his counterpart had spoken in did not demand obedience but requested it. “I trust the Long Island numbers that Lieutenant Winters here provided you over the course of your tour there were put to good use. Do you have Boston's numbers?”

“Y-yes, I do, sir,” he said, mentally smacking himself at his stumbling of words as he placed his helmet down and quickly withdrew the folded packet that contained the detailed amount of troops and types. It was encrypted using not the Culper codebook, but the method in which Sackett had encrypted his letters to him. For something such as this, he could not risk the fact that the codebook could have also been compromised with the exposure of Abe and the others in New York.

Handing the packet over, he saw his counterpart open it, glance through the sheafs before placing it to the side. “Total amount?” Tallmadge asked.

“About 3000 within the city,” he answered. “1500 more if you count those garrisoned at Lexington.”

“Good,” his counterpart answered before gesturing to the map and saying, “This, lady and gentlemen, will be a battle to feint and draw out as many troops from New York as possible. Two hundred here in Long Island--” Ben saw him gesture to the squares of blue “--along with five hundred coming in from Saratoga, and our eastern forces here in Connecticut, reinforced by drawing at least two thousand troops out of Boston, will be besieging the city.”

“But that puts our total numbers only at 3000, sir,” Bradford protested. “How many British troops garrison New York and the surrounding towns?”

“At least 3,500 in the city alone. Estimated total with the surrounding towns, puts the New York numbers at about 5,000,” Tallmadge answered, and Ben was not the only one to notice that it was not just Bradford and the officers under Bradford's command who were shifting uneasily. Even Tallmadge's lieutenants looked a bit worried. The only person who looked quite at ease was Rogers.

“We're the feint, peoples,” his counterpart stated after a moment. “Those two hundred on Long Island are everyone of the 2nd Legionnaires. They are armed with far superior weaponry than what the British garrison has. The towns on the east will be bereft of immediate protection for the duration of the siege, but will not be completely stripped of their defenses. Saratoga is sending marksmen down to ensure that our threat upon New York is very real. All of this is to draw the forces away from Washington's presence in Morristown so he and the garrison at Philadelphia can strike at the British forces holed up at Valley Forge.”

Ben realized that their discussion before he had left for Boston had come quite close to the actual plan that Washington had laid out. It was not New York that was the immediate threat, but whatever troops that had escaped from Brandywine and the subsequent skirmishes after that. There were still enemy forces that could potentially pinch in Washington's forces if he tried to attack New York at the moment. He was quite impressed by the rather close extrapolation of battle plans that his counterpart had addressed those months ago.

“And just how many are there at Valley Forge?” Rogers asked.

“Estimates put their numbers at about 15,000. Cornwallis is there and he, like us, have been building up his forces during the winter. If we wait any longer, he will march his people out and take Philadelphia.”

“Are these numbers accurate?” Bradford questioned.

“Yes,” Tallmadge answered, and Ben did not miss the quick look that his counterpart had thrown him. The others around the table had not seen it, for they were all staring at the map of the region. He knew what that look meant, and he did not flinch in the wake of it. Abe and Anna may have been compromised, but Townsend was still their hidden card up the sleeve. “Britannian forces are more likely to be mixed within the New York forces than with those at Valley Forge, which is why we're emptying Long Island, and taking every person from Saratoga who can wield the laser rifles--”

The briefing was interrupted with a Continental courier bursting into the tent, slapping the flaps of the tent to either side in a haphazard fashion. His face was ruddy and he looked to be out of breath as he panted, “Sirs, urgent message from General Washington.”

“What is it?” Ben heard his counterpart snap, stepping away from the table and crossing the length of the tent in five large steps. The courier held out the sealed message for him and Ben saw him roughly snatch the message and break open the seal. From where he was standing, he could see that Washington had not even bothered to encrypt the words, but he did notice that his counterpart's lips thinned considerably and that he gripped the message quite tightly in his hands.

“Tell him that we're coming, Private,” Tallmadge said after a moment.

“Sir,” the private said before hurrying out with the message.

Before questions could fly, Ben saw his counterpart turn to his lieutenants, saying, “Winters, get across the sound and tell Spiers to empty Long Island. Get everyone and horses to Westport. We'll rendezvous at the mouth of the Saugatuck. Adams, get to Boston, cancel the rendezvous orders for the garrisoned troops, and tell Captain Mendez that we need the _Ember of Winter_ as close to the north mouth of the East River as possible. If there's any sign of enemy troop movements headed towards Setauket or other towns east of it, she has permission to engage.”

“Yes, sir,” his two lieutenants acknowledged their orders.

“Brewster,” Tallmadge continued, “Saratoga forces should be somewhere near the western New York-Connecticut border by now. Take the infantry portion of the forces and make your way down to Piscataway. Rogers and Grayson, take your forces and go with him. Direct whatever cavalry Saratoga has sent to Ridgefield and tell them to hold until we arrive. All cavalry here will be with me, Bradford, and Tallmadge here. Our route is to rendezvous with those at Westport and then make our way to Ridgefield.”

Ben and Caleb stepped away from the table as Tallmadge stepped up and swept the entire map clean. Several blue rectangles were placed on the map at Piscataway. However, Philadelphia forces were also positioned, but were pointed towards Trenton. Then, the red rectangles were positioned, and Ben paled at just how many were placed not in Valley Forge, but on top of Princeton and Trenton. Tallmadge was not done arranging the board – there was one more piece that was placed upon the board, and that was at Sandy Hook Bay.

“Cornwallis launched an attack on Princeton and Trenton four days ago and took it. Washington has moved his troops from Morristown to Piscataway. He's called for Philadelphia reinforcements, but it's this--” Tallmadge pointed to the red rectangle located on Sandy Hook Bay, “--is what the cavalry will be intercepting before they can reinforce Cornwallis's position. Clinton has emptied New York and has 10,000 troops with him, 5,000 of those Britannian from who the hell knows where.”

“New York is empty,” Bradford breathed.

“And a trap,” Ben heard his counterpart immediately answer, placing the message down for everyone to see what was written on it. In Washington's hand writing was a single sentence at the top stating [ _Do not take New York City._ ] Near the middle of the letter were several numbers and the towns associated with those numbers. They all corresponded to what had been laid out on the map.

“If we try to take the city now, we forfeit the lives of every general on the command staff at Morristown. We'd be bringing about a swift end to our fight for freedom.” Tallmadge paused for a moment before shaking his head slightly. “No. Any infantry that we can spare will head to Piscataway to help hold the line. The cavalry will attack Clinton's forces from behind with Greene's Philadelphia forces reinforcing.”

Grim faces surrounded the map. They were clearly outnumbered, no matter how many infantry and cavalrymen they could muster on such short notice. Given the circumstances and what he had been told, Ben could not help but stare at a particular area on the map. It was happening, whether or not whatever 'history' was to be written.

“Monmouth,” he murmured, looking up and catching his counterpart's eyes. In a louder tone, he said, “It's farmland is extensive and has the least amount of wooded areas that would hinder the horses, robotic or otherwise. We intercept Clinton at Monmouth.”

 

~*~*~*~

 


	14. Gunpowder, Laser Rifles, Treason, and Plot (What Plot?) [Pt. 1]

**Chapter 14: Gunpowder, Laser Rifles, Treason, and Plot (What Plot?) [Pt. 1]**

 

“We intercept Clinton at Monmouth.”

Silence answered Ben's declaration until one of his counterpart's officers, Lieutenant Winters, lightly coughed. “Never liked that place anyways,” she said in quite a casual tone. “At least there's quite a few creeks nearby so that when those bastards shit in their trousers, they'll be able to wash 'em clean.”

A light but short burst of chuckles rang around the tent, and Ben couldn't help but also smile at the morale-lifting comment. As soon as the laughter died, Ben heard his counterpart order, “Boots and saddles in twenty! Good hunting and godspeed.”

“Yes, sir!” the two officers under Tallmadge's command crisply answered while Ben and the others also acknowledged the orders in varying degrees of enthusiasm. It did not escape his notice that Rogers had only given a slight nod, his expression quite neutral and searching.

Still, it was not his place to worry about the man's motives for continuing to serve on the side of the Continentals as a mercenary force as he snatched up his helmet and hurried out of the tent with Caleb at his side. Echoed orders were being shouted all around camp and the controlled chaos of breaking camp and getting ready to quick march was descending. “Caleb,” he said, stopping as the magnitude of what was about to happen to them in the next few days crashed upon him.

“Something the matter, Benny-boy?” he heard his friend ask.

Turning, he quickly and fiercely embraced his best friend, thumping his back as he said, “Don't die out there, Caleb.”

He felt the hearty thumps of his friend's fist upon his own back as the gesture was returned. A moment later, they both stepped back as Caleb said, “You too.”

Trying to smile, he found that he couldn't, but it was the confident, reassuring, and cocky grin that appeared on his friend's face that gave him a little bit of hope in such a mess that had entangled their lives. Sergeant Davenport's shout for Caleb's attention broke the moment and without another word, both of them turned away to attend to their own sets of orders.

He headed off towards the area where he had last seen his horse being taken to, dodging men and women hurrying on their way. The slightly harsh whine of robotic horses that had been stored in their cube forms filled the air along with the whinnying of actual horses being readied. Gunpowder and musket balls were being filled and portioned out by a few in camp to their fellow soldiers, while those of the future-army secured their advanced rifles and necessary cartridge packs.

Securing his helmet on his head, he found the six cavalrymen of the portion of his unit who had wintered at Morristown nearly ready to ride in a quiet area next to the river. It looked like his own packs, saddle, and bridle had not been removed from his horse and that his horse had only been briefly fed and watered before the call to break camp was given. Still, he had not been too hard on his horse in the time that it had taken him and Caleb to get to Stratford.

A smattering of acknowledgments greeted him as he removed the unnecessary changes of clothing that would only weigh down his horse. There was always the risk of looters coming into the camp once they were gone, but nothing of great importance was left here. Ensuring that extra gunpowder and musket balls within what remained of his packs were strapped down and ready, he stepped up into the stirrup and swung himself up and over. Others followed in his wake and a few minutes later, they were ready to go.

By the time they arrived at where the main camp had been, it was nearly half-deserted with only the cavalry portion of Bradford's forces left. Rogers and his men were gone, as were most of the US Army members who had been in the camp. He was puzzled as to the lack of the future-army people, for by his count, only six cavalry Army soldiers remained. He saw Bradford shoot him a quick questioning look – the man also didn't know why the others of the Army had left.

“I sent them to help get the infantry to Piscataway faster by doubling up on riders per robotic horse,” he heard his counterpart answer their unasked question as the man emerged from the planning tent with an armful of rolled up maps and letters. The items were unceremoniously dumped into the nearest campfire before Tallmadge swung his rifle that had been slung across his back, forward and fired several rapid shots into the campfire. The flames exploded in quite a high manner for a brief moment, startling some of the real horses before settling back down as the man swung his rifle by the shoulder strap to allow it to settle back on his back. Everything that had been in the campfire had been incinerated, and a moment later, one of Tallmadge's remaining soldiers handed a bucket of water over to him to douse the fire.

It angrily hissed, sending puffs of steam into the air before settling down. Tossing the bucket away, Tallmadge then mounted his own robotic horse as another of the remaining soldiers handed him his bowl-shaped helmet. The single oak leaf was still on there, but Ben had a feeling that perhaps if the battle was won, it would not matter that the leaf decorated that helmet – his counterpart would be Brigadier General in name and actual rank. He was sure that Washington would see to it.

And with that thought came the strangest of sensations that crept up his gut. By the time he realized what the feeling was, it was much too late for him to attempt to try to completely quash it. He was jealous. He was jealous that his counterpart was more successful than him at the moment; jealous that his counterpart commanded respect from even the most obstinate and irritating of peoples such as Bradford. Jealous that-- _No, Ben!_

The phantom echo of his father's last voiced words to him rang in his ears as he blinked and pulled him out of the strange haze that had gripped his vision. His father's teachings, preaching, guidance, and words of ministry ran through his mind, calming him. Never had he experienced such a surge of anger and insecurity before, and it frightened him. The only other thing that scared him even more than that was the fact that he _knew_ where it had come from – his lingering feelings of inferiority and worthlessness stemming from the dismissal by Washington as Head of Intelligence.

He took a deep breath, slowly blowing it out as he tried to settle his thoughts. They were going into battle, into war, and into the unknown. Little things such as the unknown aftermath of the battle needed to be discarded. Anything could happen, and he needed to focus on the here and now. And the now was the fact that out of all of them, his counterpart _had_ the experience and knowledge to fight Britannian forces. His counterpart went to school solely to learn and prepare for war. None of them here could have fallen under the command of a better person than his counterpart who knew how to fight these advanced forces.

“Sir,” Bradford said just before the signal to move from camp could be given. “I thought it takes at least a day to get to Setauket and back. Will we not arrive at Westport before the others arrive?”

“A steady alternation between cantering and trotting to keep the real horses from tiring too much will bring us to the mouth of the Saugatuck in about two or three hours. There's a mechanism inside of the robotic horses that can be used on whaleboats and the like to get them across the Sound in one to two hours, but it will break the boats apart if used in excess. Which given the speed it will take to get across the Sound to meet us, it will. After picking up cavalry forces at Ridgefield, we're going into New York, cross the Hudson at Sleep Hollow and Nyack, and curve towards Morristown. Staying close to the border of New Jersey and Pennsylvania should bring us close enough to Greene's forces to inform him of the plan. Then we'll swing back up towards the Jersey coastline. That should bring us right into Clinton's forces with Greene and his forces supporting our charge. Do you have anymore questions, Bradford?”

Ben was slightly startled at just how detailed his counterpart had explained of the entire plan to get to Clinton's position, especially since Bradford had merely asked about the Westport rendezvous. It was evident from his counterpart's rather short tone that the man did not want to constantly stop and answer questions as to each portion of their destination to reach Clinton. That or, as his thoughts took a darker turn, if any of them were separated by potentially ambushing enemy forces, they would at least know the details that was intended to get reinforcements to New Jersey and perhaps give false information to the enemy.

“N-no, sir,” Bradford said after a moment.

“Move out!” Fourty-two riders thundered out of the clearing, racing towards a battle that none of them knew if they would win.

* * *

_Monmouth, mid-morning..._

 

The gentleman's way of war had been perverted – utterly and without question perverted with the arrival of the future people as Andre sat on his horse, overlooking the battle with Cornwallis by his side. They were on a small bluff in an area called Monmouth, with Cornwallis having thought to move all of his forces after burning Trenton and Princeton to the ground, towards this area. Clinton was supposed to have met them closer to Piscataway, but Cornwallis had though it more prudent for them to be nearer to the coast – the better for ship cannonade support if needed.

Indeed, the man had a point, Andre had conceded, for even with the upper hand in terms of men in the battle, one never knew what Washington and the other commanders would try to attempt to gain whatever upper hand they could. They could not wholly rely on Britannia, and even if 'Captain Falsworth' and other Britannian commanders participated in the battle, their ways of warfare were part of the perversion of the warfare that he, Andre, was used to.

He glanced towards where 'Captain Falsworth' of Britannia was, within the artillery section, but not commanding the cannons to fire. Instead, the man was directing several cavalrymen to build something of the sort as the artillery commander continued to fire away. A perversion indeed, for it was only because Cornwallis commanded this battle that other native-like tactics used by Britannia were not currently employed.

He had to give credit to his counterpart for reigning in Britannian attitudes at what he had heard them term, 'ancient and idiotic ways of warfare'. To seemingly appease Cornwallis, Britannian soldiers were surprisingly integrated within the lines of the British. Currently, they were firing their weapons and trying to take out an advancing line of Washington's soldiers.

“Ah, it seems that Greene's forces have finally arrived, or are starting to trickle in,” he heard Cornwallis casually say.

Holding back the sigh of exasperation at just how blasé of an attitude the general had, he picked up his spyglass and looked towards the south-west direction, seeing pinpricks of what looked to be people approaching. The woods thick woods on either side were funneling them through the open area that would bring them to this field, but as of right now, they were much too far for any of their forces to even begin engaging them.

“Major Andre, have Colonel Carpenter bring his forces to bear upon Greene. Cut him off before he can reach Washington's position, however his numbers may not even help. We might as well make this victory as swift as possible to ease the Continental's suffering.”

“As you wish, your Excellency,” he answered.

* * *

_Monmouth, late afternoon..._

 

Impatient horses whickered and snorted, shifting uneasily as the distant roars of gunfire and cannonades along with the higher-pitched sounds of advanced weaponry filled what should have been a calm spring dusk. Sunlight was rapidly fading, and in the woods, it was much darker than in the field. The more mechanically built counterparts of the horses flicked their false tails and occasionally shook their heads as a real horse would, but no such beastly sounds were heard from them. The unblinking sea of red eyes from those false beasts stared out and surrounded the sixty light cavalrymen of the Continental Army. It gave them comfort to know that even with the waning light, they could still maintain their lines and distances in this sea of trees. Among those within the mass of horses, men, and women dressed in mottled brown-green-black colors was Ben.

Both he and Bradford were currently at the front of their groups. The entire 360 cavalry force had been strung out with 120 horsemen per row, totaling three rows. On the left were most of Tallmadge's cavalry, with Bradford and Ben's forces strung to the right. It was only because the 2nd Legionnaires had to capability to absorb potential crossfire and crash through with enough force to cut off Clinton's left flanks from Cornwallis's forces that they were arrayed mostly to the left. They were going to try to curve Clinton's flank towards the right, using the creek that ran near the British general's position as the cut off point. Ben and the mixed forces of the 2nd Continentals, Bradford's forces, and those under the command of Lieutenant Winters would sweep up towards the right and pen Clinton's right flank in to allow the middle forces under the command of Lieutenants Spiers and Adams to smash into British-Britannian backs.

At least that was the initial opening volley that they would unleash, for whatever happened after that was in the Lord's hands. They were already close enough to Washington's forces that they would be charging into friendly cannon fire, but their aim was solely to alleviate the pressure on the Continental infantry and to make it look like there were a lot of reinforcements coming in from the woods. Ben could feel a mad flutter of nervousness in his stomach, but tried to swallow it back down as he glanced down the line from where he was sitting to see his counterpart gently kick the sides of his robotic horse to step out.

“Soldiers!” Tallmadge shouted, parading up and down the line, with his words being echoed within the liquid black helmets of the future-army so that others not near the General could hear the speech. “We are few, but we are strong!” All eyes were riveted to their leader, who could barely be seen, but Ben felt a little bolstered by the confidence and words that his counterpart was saying. “Those armies beyond the woods mean to crush our spirits so that we may never again rise to rebel against them! Show those British-Britannia bastards that numbers mean nothing! Show them that we will not submit to tyranny! Fight today! For liberty! For freedom! No surrender, no retreat!”

They cheered, eager to finally show the British just how badly they underestimated the combined Continental-US Army. In the midst of his cheering, Ben had also unsheathed his sabre and held up proudly, as the remnants of the cheer echoed in the forest that was followed by the sound of metal scraping against their sheaths and being bared. He saw his counterpart return to his position near the left flank and raise his own flat, metallic-blue hued sabre up into the air. It was then pointed forward, and the charge began.

The thrill of an ambush and battle to be had thundered with the hooves of the horses both false and real as the three lines of cavalry rushed forward. With the steady shout of Tallmadge to 'hold the line', and all eyes up and down their rows to keep pace to ensure that they all hit the British-Britannian forces at the right time, Ben could feel his focus sharpen. Each hoof beat on the ground in the canter that was about to turn into a full gallop by his horse trembled through his body as he held his sabre as steady as possible.

The ground beneath them shook not only with the hooves of 360 horses, but also with the explosion of cannonades that landed in the middle of the enemy formations. He could see the pinpricks of cannons and the men manning them over the heads of the enemy forces, illuminated by the golden sunset, but even in the face of such destruction being rendered upon them, no British or Britannian broke rank. They were continuing to advance towards the north and continued to fill the open field with smoke, gunpowder, musket balls, and deadly blue bolts that was setting even the damp grass on fire.

Just before they reached the edge of the woods, Ben shouted, “For America!”

Moments later, he heard the echoed beats of his declaration carry through the ranks as he kicked the sides of his horse, pushing it into a full gallop. The left flank of the cavalry immediately surged ahead, enveloped in liquid black armor to slither and strangle that side of Clinton's forces. Ben did not see them after their initial surge, for he and the others surrounding him barreled into the open coastal plains of Monmouth.

The British-Britannian soldiers at the back only had a glimpse of blue-and-gold dressed soldiers being flanked by black wraiths before they were violently trampled to death by the cavalry. As a flood of enemy soldiers surged towards the right, causing those on the left to be further trampled in their haste to get away from the wraiths of the 2nd Legionnaires, Ben held himself steady as his horse went from a full gallop into and through soldiers and was nearly arrested in movement. That did not preclude him from swinging his sabre down towards the right and into a Britannian soldier, slicing the soldier's face, neck, and shoulder open.

He continued to push his horse through as the ground shook again, this time closer as he felt heated flecks of dirt and splinters of wood splatter into him from the cannonade that had landed close to his position. His ears rang with the shouts of dying men and cannon fire landing close to him. His voice was hoarse from projecting as fearsome of a rally cry as he could. Another enemy soldier tried to charge up on his left to him to drag him from his horse, but he swung himself lower than the soldier expected, and stabbed the man with the tip of his sabre. Pushing forward, he swung his sabre again on the right, partially lifting the enemy soldier up into the air as he cut up and into him.

“2nd Light, on me!” he shouted, taking a moment to raise his sabre high in the air twirling it before dropping it back down. Dodging to the side just as he saw the momentary flash of a lobster back bear his rifle down to shoot him, he kicked the flanks of his horse and sprinted from the thick of the battlefield. Several other men thundered after and beside him as his unit tore away from the heart of the skirmish, trampling and bowling over infantrymen of either era's enemies on their way out.

He led them on a quick jaunt towards the north-east, and caught a glimpse of the Continentals across the smoke-and-fire-filled field that divided them from the advancing British-Britannian forces. Perched on a low bluff were two cannon crews, along with several slowly advancing lines of Continental forces under the direct command of Washington. In that split second that he glimpsed across the battlefield through the waning sunset and smoky haze, he could see his commander's rather shocked expression. That moment was over when the cool spring breeze blew thick smoke across the battlefield, obscuring his view. Two pounding hoof beats later, Ben and his men crashed into the left flank of Clinton's forces again, herding the men further against those trying to escape east.

Two whistling thumps added to the chaotic shouts and screams of those fighting, and just as Ben crossed swords with a lobster back officer, the force in which he had put up to block the sabre of the enemy officer was violently jarred. Chunks of bloody limbs, body parts, sharp slivers of wood, and scaldingly hot dirt flew up into the air, hitting those around who had not been initially killed by the dual cannon balls. His ears rung quite badly before everything around him went silent as he lost his seat on the saddle, but managed to slip off and land on the ground. The officer's sabre struck his helmet instead of where his head would have been, as he scrambled up and quickly pulled the officer off of his own horse, just as his own steed reared and tried to trample him.

Stabbing the man in the chest before he could be skewered himself, he pulled out his pistol and shot a Britannian soldier in the chest beyond the officer he had just killed, just as two Legionnaires swept past. He felt the thick splash of blood on his back, rather than heard two meaty clunks of enemy soldiers being rammed up and into the swords of the two wraiths. Turning to see a female Britannian soldier and another lobster back being flung away by the wraiths, he sheathed his pistol. He took that split-second opportunity to climb back onto his horse, which had calmed down just enough for him to wrangle and climb up just as it tried to bolt away.

Sounds were coming back to him, but they were severely muffled as he tugged on his horse's rein before directing it left. Plowing into yet another cluster of men, he didn't get a chance to kill a fleeing soldier before the main horde of liquid-black encased soldiers of the 2nd Legionnaires from the left flank finally cut through Clinton's forces. Metallic black and glowing red eyes swept past and surrounded him as he too tugged his horse in the direction that they were headed. The mass of cavalrymen swept northward, cutting through the front lines of Cornwallis forces, scattering lines as the ground shook again with cannonades.

Flecks of blue bolts pinged off those at the front of the charge, but they were being splattered in a haphazard fashion, enough that Ben had to duck and keep his head down as a stray bolt struck his helmet plume, briefly setting it on fire. Their charge continued as they turned towards the west, and even though the sun was now below the treeline, Ben could see that they were headed straight for the line of British cannons on the small hill in the middle of Cornwallis's forces. Sixteen guncrews manned the cannons that were firing both on the advancing forces of Greene from the southwest, and the still advancing forces of Washington – though the portion that had engaged the bulk of Cornwallis's forces was being commanded by Lee.

With Clinton's ranks in disarray, Ben had also taken a quick look back towards where Washington was, and saw Arnold leading an infantry charge. Hails of blue bolts from their side of the battle lanced into elements of Cornwallis's right flank and Clinton's front lines, and he knew that somewhere within Arnold's command was Caleb and others of the 2nd Continentals. His attention and hope that his friend was still alive was quickly diverted back towards the front of the cavalry charge, as _something_ happened.

That something had turned the blue bolts into red ones, and started a chain of events that would baffle him in the future as to how exactly he had survived. As soon as the first, second, then several other men and women of the 2nd Legionnaires started to fall, their screams at being cut down by the red laser bolts echoing across the helmets of their compatriots, Ben felt himself hitch in breath. It was impossible – it had to be – for he had seen them and their robotic horses survive onslaught after onslaught of the advance weapons being fired at them.

Not a second after the first few of them fell to the eerie red bolts, a ear-piercing whine unlike what he remembered of the Setauket Gatling gun that was not supposed to have existed yet, filled the air. Three hoof beats later, the entire cavalry shifted towards a sharp right turn as Ben caught a glimpse of what exactly was being shot at them. It looked like a Gatling gun, it sounded like one, but it was not one that was gunpowder-based. Instead, it looked like a menacing silver-barreled, squat thing sitting on three legs and spitting out a massive amount of red bolts all at once. And it protected Cornwallis's gun crews with a ferocity that was matched only by a mother wolf defending her cubs.

Robotic horses flipped end over end, flinging their riders into the ground and air as the red bolts tore into the cavalry's left flank. Ben heard the acute screams of men, women, and beasts not just from the echoed voices that projected out of the helmets of other Legionnaires near him, but also outside as the weapon sliced its way into Continental ranks. To the right of them was the remnants of Clinton's left flank that had not engaged Arnold's charge, and their hail of musket balls and blue bolts tore into the exposed right flanks of the combined cavalry. Continental soldiers on either side fell like playing cards being scattered in a bar fight to the continuous fire.

As they streamed out into the open field, charging through fire inflamed grass and choking smoke, the advanced Gatling was joined in by three more of its kind as Ben felt panic well up inside of him. He was near the back of the central mass of the cavalry, as were most of the Continental soldiers – they had not expected the Legionnaires who surrounded them to be cut down so easily. As he glanced to his right and left, urging his horse to gallop faster, feeling it falter as flecks of foam tore from its mouth and flew back, he saw the Legionnaires near him start to slow down.

“No!” he shouted, trying to stop them, understanding at that moment what exactly those soldiers were doing. He could not let them, could not in good conscious, let them sacrifice themselves as a shield of sorts to get the Continental cavalrymen out of danger.

Trading his sabre into his left hand that was still tightly holding onto the rein of his horse, he reached out towards the nearest Legionnaire, trying to stop the soldier from doing something foolish. Just as he managed to land a hand on the soldier's upper left arm, the robotic horse underneath the soldier jerked forward and collapsed as a red bolt lanced through its legs. It was by chance that he managed to snatch the fabric of the soldier's uniform as the liquid-black metallic armor collapsed.

He nearly lost his balance and seat on his own horse as the weight of the soldier – Lieutenant Adams – dragged him down. His horse heeled towards the left then right for a few moments before Adams's flailing hands found purchase on the saddle's cantle. Two more red bolts lanced a little too close to both of them as more cavalry forces were cut down to the left. Ben heaved with all of his strength, pulling the man up so that he sat behind the cantle but not quite on the hindquarters of his horse. He felt Adams clutch onto the back of his uniform to keep himself from falling off his precarious perch.

They were slowed considerably with two riders on his poor steed, were still being pushed forward by what remained of the cavalry. Moments later, the whine of the advanced Gatlings abruptly died, letting only the remnant buzzing of laser rifles and gunpowder-based weaponry to fill the air. Ben was about to glance back to see what had happened when Adams shouted in his ear, “They've overheated! Go!”

It was now getting quite dark as the last of the sun passed beyond the forested horizon, allowing only the blue bolts being exchanged on either side to illuminate those around them. Fires in the field still burned, but even they were dying out with nothing more to burn. He could not hear anymore screams of Continentals or Legionnaires alike, though it was now the labored huffs of his horse that was interspersed with the thundering hooves of the force's sprint across the battlefield.

“Retreat!” he heard someone shout among the mass. “Cornwallis is calling for a retreat! Washington too!”

This time, he glanced back and saw the shadowed figures of the British-Britannian forces folding towards the woods where the cavalry had initiated their charge. In the distance to the west, he saw a mass approaching the same area where they were headed and could only assume that it was Greene's forces. They streamed past Arnold's forces, and even with the rapidly fading light, he saw some members of his unit retreating in formation and half-cheering in joy as they saw them ride by.

He couldn't see where Caleb was, but could only hope that his friend had survived today's battle. They had managed to inflict some casualties on Clinton, but it was not a victory. Neither was it a British-Britannian victory, and that gave him some comfort.

~~~

A mob was not exactly the word Ben would have used to describe the sheer number of soldiers that surrounded the Continental cavalry as soon as they entered the battlefield camp. Scores of infantrymen cheered and threw their hats up in the air as Ben and the others dismounted. He was shaken and slapped on his shoulders and back, aggravating some cuts on his face and neck that he had not realized he had received during the battle.

Baffled but ecstatic at the same time, he grinned as he removed his helmet and tucked it to the side. He shook hands with some of his men who had been in the infantry portion, all the while trying to move through the crowds. He had seen Arnold enter the camp on his horse, the last of the infantry returning. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could also see Bradford being congratulated in the same manner as he was. Though his men and others of the army momentarily arrested his movement, it did not escape his notice at just how difficult of a time Arnold was having in trying to dismount his horse.

An aide attempted to help the general, but was roughly batted away. Ben halted his advance towards the general, allowing the man a peace of mind in such circumstances. With some difficulty, Arnold finally dismounted as the aide hurried back over and handed him a cane and whispered something into his ears.

“Bradford! Tallmadge!” Arnold barked, catching some of the crowd's attention with his booming voice. He hurried over to the general, noticing that Arnold was also searching around the crowd and had a clear frown on his face.

“Sir?” he asked as he halted before the man, just as Bradford also did, though Bradford looked a little more than smug and suffused with confidence. Ben quashed the cold fury that surged through him – official counts of just how many cavalry had been lost to the advanced Gatlings had not been tallied yet. However, with campfires illuminating the area all around them, he had seen more of Bradford's men than of his own.

“Where's your... counterpart, Major?” Arnold asked.

“Setting up a perimeter, sir,” he answered, but then realized that he needed to clarify the word and continued after a momentary pause. “Watch rotations, sir. They're currently digging trenches at the edge of camp to keep watch and prevent Britannian forces from potentially ambushing us during the night.”

“You can't bloody see anything out at night, especially if its moonless! Fetch him, Tallmadge. General Washington is calling for an immediate after-action debrief.”

“Sir,” he began, knowing that the great general had spent little to no time among the presence of the future-people and would not have knowledge of what mechanisms they possessed for their own type of warfare. Now was not the time to clarify things, not when there was urgency to relay troop statuses and information to their commander. “Yes, sir.”

Wasting not a moment longer, he hurried towards the edge of the camp where the cavalry had entered. He was tired from the battle and quite hungry, but that was all swept away when he heard a familiar voice shout, “Look at the Tall-boy!”

“Caleb!” he shouted in relief as he stopped and turned to see his friend run up. Fiercely embracing him, he thumped his friend's back several times, glad to see that he was uninjured and all right. There was a very distinctively sharp smell that surrounded him, along with soot and gunpowder that covered his clothes and face, but it was Caleb through and through.

Though his body hurt, he ignored it as Caleb gave one last hearty thump on his back before pulling back and clapping him on the shoulders. Over his friend's shoulder, he saw Brewster also saunter up with a silly smile on her face. “Good to see you alive as well, Brewster,” he said.

“You should know that it's impossible to kill or get rid of us, sir,” she stated as Caleb let one of his shoulders go and stepped to the side to invite the woman into their little group. She held out a hand, and Ben took it and shook it. “Nice job with the wrecking ball maneuver,” she said as they let go.

“Wrecking ball?” he questioned.

“Well, it look like a game of balls to me, Benny-boy,” Caleb quipped. “You, Tall-green-boy, hell even Bradford smashing into those lobster backs and Britannian soldiers. Scared them to death. They definitely needed to wash their small clothes after what you pulled.”

“It's always a good day when Britannia doesn't bring their brown trousers and we get to make them paint theirs out of sheer terror,” Brewster quipped.

“As much as I want to continue this discussion, I can't,” he said as soon as he was given a moment to speak. “General Washington has called for a debrief and well, my counterpart's presence is requested. General Arnold's asked me to fetch him from the edge of camp.”

“Digging trenches, eh?” Brewster asked, though it sounded more like a statement than a question.

“Yes,” he confirmed.

“Well, I might as well make my own foxhole then,” she said, setting off in the direction that he had been headed towards.

Caleb gave him a slight shrug of his shoulders and followed her as Ben followed the two. Catching up and walking side-by-side with them, he said, “We could have done a lot more had those Gatlings not been hidden within Cornwallis's forces.”

“Yeah,” he heard his friend echo before asking in a serious tone, “How many did the 2nd Light lose for cavalry?”

“I don't know,” he admitted, shaking his head slightly. “Infantry?”

“Davis, Anderson, Gregory, Childress, Wentworth, McGill, Cooper, Brown, Fulton, and Miller. Twenty-three are at the surgeon.”

“Ten,” he echoed, briefly closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again. Five of those ten had been the early adopters of the advance rifles and had been sent up to Saratoga. “At least ten dead. I'll write the letters to their families, Caleb.”

His friend was silent as they continued towards the edge of the camp, eventually spotting and hearing the shadowed forms of men and women digging. Though it was a moonless night, Ben's eyes were well adjusted to the darkness, and he could see the outlines of their movements. At this distance from the more cheerfully warm and inviting part of the camp, little to no light from the campfires reached here. They were approaching a lone figure who had held something up to his eyes and was looking out towards the wooded area where Clinton and Cornwallis had retreated.

“Sir,” he stated as the three of the halted. He saw his counterpart remove the the advanced spyglass – binoculars that could peer into the darkness – from his eyes and turn to face them. “General Washington has requested your presence along with mine at the planning tent.”

He saw the faint outline of a nod as Tallmadge tucked the binoculars into a waist pouch, before saying, “Will do. It's good to see all of you alive and uninjured. Did you bring your horse, Carrie?”

“Yes, sir,” she answered, digging into her uniform's pocket and retrieving the cube-like object.

“Good, I need you to go to Adams about 500 yards to the west and integrate it with the others there. He knows the robotic configuration setting to create the same Gatling that Cornwallis was hiding within the artillery line. We'll give the Britannians a taste of their own medicine if they try to ambush us.”

“Yes, sir,” she answered.

“I have my horse too, if you need it, Tall-green...uh, I mean, sir,” Caleb stated, stumbling slightly with his words, remembering that Tallmadge now outranked all of them by a rather large gulf.

“If you're willing to continue to lead the infantry, the Gatlings that we already have set up need a boost in power. We could use whatever you have left in your horse.”

“Always a pleasure to give those shites more reasons to run away with their tails between their legs,” Caleb said.

“And go get something to eat at Battalion CP, Brewsters-two,” Tallmadge said, gesturing towards something behind them. “Heard that its not going to be too bad of a meal. It's near Echo company's position. Oh, and one last thing, make sure Rogers's men also take watch shifts.”

“Will do sir. Come on, time to show you the 'by our powers combined' portion of the robotic horses,” he heard Brewster say to Caleb after she had given her commander a curt nod, practically dragging him in a gleeful manner towards where Lieutenant Adams was.

“But what's 'CP'?” Ben heard the fading question of his friend ask both he and his counterpart wordlessly returned towards the heart of the battlefield camp.

It was only after they had passed the first of many campfires that Tallmadge finally removed his helmet, running a hand through his matted hair to at least smooth it back slightly and be a little more presentable. Ben knew that he was in an even more sorry state of dress and appearance than him – he could feel the weight of soot, gunpowder, dirt, and of blood not of his own soaking through his clothes. Still, it was best not to keep Washington waiting, for it seemed like their commander wanted immediately discuss what had happened.

Soldiers, along with some local civilians that he had seen arriving at camp to help them, stopped whatever they had been doing for a moment and stared at them as they passed by. A few managed to snap out of their fugue and knuckled their foreheads in a salute, while most just gaped. Indeed, it was a strange sight to see, for in all the times that Tallmadge had been to Morristown, Ben knew that his counterpart had been extremely careful as to how many people had seen him, not wanting to confuse Continental soldiers even further than they already were. Now, there was no way to avoid it in their walk up to the planning tent, which was at the center of the camp.

Thomas Hickey and William Bainsfield were standing guard outside of the tent and gave both of them curt nods just as they arrived. Entering the tent first, Ben saw that a rather hasty yet enormous table had been constructed using crates. A large piece of tenting cloth had been draped over the crates to give it an illusion of a table, while several maps had been unfurled and were held down by rocks. Included among those in Washington's planning tent were Knox, Greene, Lee, Bradford, Hamilton, von Stuben, and Arnold. He recognized de Francy standing among the commanders, but did not recognize the rather youthful-looking aristocratic Frenchman next to the French Intelligence Officer.

If Lee's expression of glowering disdain was anything to make him feel intimidated in the presence of several high-ranking officers, it didn't evoke such feelings. He had already briefed such a group last year before Brandywine, and after what happened today, nothing about the high-ranking officers present frightened him. He placed his singed helmet on top of some crates near the entrance and approached the table as his counterpart entered.

Moments later, his counterpart joined him and Washington began by asking, “How many were left behind in Philadelphia, and what are the casualties, General Greene?”

“Thirty men, sir,” Greene answered. “They are under the command of a trusted officer on my staff, Lieutenant Creighton. We lost sixty-seven during the fight, and thirty-two are currently being tended to by the surgeon.”

“Baron von Stuben?”

“Forty-two dead, nineteen injured,” the Prussian gruffly answered.

“General Knox?”

“None, sir. Artillery went through three-quarters of a ton of powder through. We only have enough for one more full day of battle.”

Washington was silent for a moment before nodding and jotted something quickly on a separate piece of parchment before looking back up and asking, “General Lee?”

“Seventy-six, and fifteen, sir,” Lee answered.

“Colonel Bradford?”

“Thirty-nine dead from the infantry, sir. None injured enough to see a surgeon. I do not yet have the total count for the cavalry, sir,” Bradford admitted, and Ben instantly felt a little better about the fact that he too did not have the number of injured or dead from his own forces.

“I expect it within the hour, Bradford,” Washington said.

“Yes, sir,” the man answered, hanging his head slightly as Ben thought he saw a quick disapproving look flash across Lee's expression before it disappeared.

“Marquis de Lafayette?” Washington asked, addressing the aristocratic-looking Frenchman.

“Five are now with the Lord, and one is with the surgeon,” the Frenchman said. “And might I add that it is mostly thanks to the integrated training regimen that they had with Lieutenant Brewster that saved their lives.”

“Noted. Major Tallmadge?”

“Ten dead from the infantry. Twenty-three at the surgeon. I too do not have numbers for the cavalry,” he stated. “I'll bring them within the hour as well, sir.”

“Very well,” his commander said, giving him the briefest of looks that was borderline contemptuous before it was schooled to a more neutral look as he looked at Arnold. Washington still had not forgiven him for what had happened with the Culper Ring and the Intelligence they had provided to him. Ben did not know what to do to regain his commander's trust but was shaken out of those thoughts as his commander asked, “General Arnold?”

“Twenty-nine dead. Thirty-three injured,” the general answered.

“General Tallmadge?”

It was readily apparent that apart from Bradford and him, everyone else around the table had not known of Tallmadge's brevetted promotion to generalship. Washington's announcement was met with looks of astonishment that quickly turned into confusion, but neither their commander or Tallmadge deigned to clarify their confusion. Instead, Ben heard his counterpart answer, “Sixty dead, sir. None injured.”

“And what exactly are you and your people doing on the edge of camp at this very moment?”

“Defensive perimeter, sir,” Tallmadge answered. “Britannia may send skirmishers to harass our camp during the night. Watch rotations have already been set and we've already built four Gatlings using a few robotic horses.”

“I see,” Washington answered before turning his head slightly towards Lafayette, saying, “Marquis, please integrate your men with the perimeter forces. The rest of you will set patrols around the wooded edges of our camp. Challenges are the same that were used during the Trenton campaign.”

A chorus of “yes, sir” and “yes, your Excellency” answered his order.

~~~

The tent flap rustled, but Washington did not hear it as his thoughts were still consumed by the maps that were laid out before him. Red rectangles along with blue ones dotted one particular map – that of Monmouth Courthouse and its surroundings. Just as he was about to pick up the piece of parchment that contained the entire tally of those killed and injured, the voice of his manservant saying “Sir, your evening meal,” startled him out of his reverie.

Blinking, he set the tally back down as he looked up to see William set the tray and cup of wine down on the desk at the far side of the tent. “Thank you, William,” he remembered to say. “That will be all for now.”

“Yes, sir,” the young man answered before leaving.

With the tent flap closed again, he returned his gaze to the map, shaking his head slightly. It had been a costly battle, though he was well aware that had they not had the combined training of von Stuben, Lafayette, and Lieutenant Carrie Brewster drilling them throughout the winter, those numbers would have been higher. Though total casualties number at less than 500, he was sure that those numbers would continue to rise, especially since the British-Britannia forces now had weapons that could decimate even the future-army's cavalry.

He looked down at the numbers again. His former Head of Intelligence had lost twenty-seven cavalrymen, while Bradford had lost only eleven. On the small hill that he had commanded and overseen artillery and infantry forces against Clinton's numbers today, he had clearly seen the black wraiths surround Continental cavalrymen. Each turn, each charge attempted, was initially carried out by the Legionnaires with Continental forces sweeping up the remnants. General Tallmadge had deliberately put his own people in harm's way to ensure that Continental soldiers did not die.

But it had all been in vain as Washington clearly remembered how thick smoke from not only the cannons that were firing from their side, but also from Cornwallis's side, along with flintlocks being discharged had briefly obscured his view of the cavalry wreaking havoc on Clinton's lines. The sun was past setting, and by the time the smoke blew away, he had seen blood-red bolts emerge from Cornwallis's artillery line like a swarm of angry bees – lancing out and cutting down mechanical beasts and soldiers.

That was a sight he could never unsee, and something that he could never unhear as their guttural screams seemingly echoed across the battlefield, shaking the very foundations of his heart. In all of his life, even while serving in the Virginia Regiment, the only other thing that came close to haunting his dreams was when blood thirsty natives had attacked the expedition that he had been a part of – Braddock's Expedition. He was able to fight back then, to defend himself, but today, there had been nothing he could have done to save those men and women.

He mourned not only their deaths, but all of the other men who had died today. Tomorrow, more would be sacrificed, and with each day and hour that passed, he found it harder and harder to keep sending good people to their deaths. The piece of parchment curled around his right hand as he pounded his fist into the table of crates. Damn General Clinton – Culper _had_ sent accurate numbers for within and the surroundings of New York for British forces, but where had 5,000 Britannian soldiers come from?!

“Sir,” he heard William speak up again, as the tent flap was opened and his manservant poked his head in. “General Arnold wishes to speak to you.”

“Send him in,” he answered.

There was a momentary shuffling of footsteps outside and then the flap opened again as he looked up, remembering to release the fist that his right hand had been curled up into. The piece of parchment remained crumpled on the maps as he swept his hands behind his back and greeted Arnold with a simple nod of his head. “Benedict,” he said.

“George,” Arnold answered, glancing down at the table with the crumpled tally before looking back up. “If you have a moment, I'd like to speak to you about Tallmadge.”

“Which one?” he asked, not trying to be facetious at all, for it had not escaped his notice at just how puzzled his friend was when the two men had finally appeared in the planning tent earlier in the night. Outside of those of the Culper Ring within Morristown, his manservant, and a couple of his aides including Hamilton, few had even seen Major Tallmadge's counterpart in person. He understood how much of a shock it must have been to all of the commanders who had not been directly exposed to the strangeness that governed their war for freedom now. He vowed to provide a full explanation to his command staff when this battle was over.

“Both, but starting with the one you named 'General Tallmadge',” Arnold answered.

“Would you like to sit, my friend?” he asked, gesturing towards the bench near the entrance to the tent, seeing just how heavily his friend was leaning on his cane at the moment.

“No, thank you,” his friend said, shaking his head slightly. “The boy's young for such a command. How did you convince Congress to approve of it?”

“They didn't,” he answered. “He was brevetted by his own chain of command.” Holding up a hand to forestall his friend's questions, he continued to say, “When he and Major Tallmadge returned from Philadelphia, a messenger also arrived. This messenger was another of the people from the future, appearing near Boston. He brought orders from their General to establish a clear chain of command on this side and to try to not engage or affect any wars, economics, or politics in any of the eras that their people had been transported to.”

“Not to engage or affect?” Arnold scoffed. “I think it is too late for that.”

“Yes, it is,” he agreed. “It is also why General Tallmadge and his forces have continued to assist us.”

“You make it sound as if he is assisting us out of the goodness of his heart. Mercenary-like, George.”

“Which is how I've been treating him and Rogers under his command,” he said, loosening his hands from his back and tapped the crate table for a moment. “These future forces have appeared with such unpredictability that we may never know when or if they will disappear. If they do, then we must be ready to continue to fight without assistance. It is why I have never ordered General Tallmadge or his forces to do anything. I've only requested and hope that they do fulfill that request. It has thus far worked, Benedict.”

Arnold was silent for a long moment as Washington saw him clench his jaw for a moment before saying, “Then these numbers that your Head of Intelligence, Major Tallmadge, has gathered... Were we to have expected such numbers had we invaded New York? Clinton's 10,000?”

“New York was never our goal for the spring,” he said, shaking his head slightly before gesturing to the cluster of red rectangles on the Monmouth map. “Our goal was to engage Cornwallis with Greene supporting our charge before the man could charge from Valley Forge with the numbers to take Philadelphia. Tallmadge, Bradford, Rogers, and numbers being brought in from Boston by Major Tallmadge were to have kept New York focused on them.”

“Then--”

“General sir!” Hamilton interrupted them as he burst in, looked uncharacteristically harried. “A skirmish is breaking out at the edge of the camp!”

Alarmed and worried at the same time, he immediately stepped away from the crate table and followed his aide outside. There were already concerned murmurs rising as word of what was happening spread. Distant echoes of flintlocks and the faint whine of laser rifles being discharged in the night were heard as he thought he saw blue bolts being fired towards the south. He took the proffered binoculars that Hamilton had held up for him – how his aide had acquired one was a mystery, but he knew that it would allow him to see objects not normally seen during darkness.

Peering into it, his vision was washed in a green color, with the pinpoint flecks of lasers being seen as he saw a somewhat steady stream being emitted from a dark portion of the western edge of their camp. Several figures outlined in green that had been trying to race across the field towards their camp fell, though there was some exchange in fire. As quickly as the skirmish had started, it was suddenly stopped as he saw the stream of blue bolts die down and heard the last of the flintlocks being discharged. Whoever had tried to invade them had failed.

Putting down the binoculars, he handed it back to Hamilton before saying, “Inform Greene and the others to set up patrols _beyond_ our camp borders, Colonel. Let those in the trenches know too. They may try to cross the field again, but after that demonstration, they are sure to try to find other ways to infiltrate the camp.”

“Yes sir,” Hamilton smartly answered before hurrying off on his task.

“This will not be a restful night, George,” he heard Arnold murmur from beside him.

“Indeed,” he answered. “It will not be for us and for them.”

* * *

_New York City, the next morning..._

 

“Mary, please!” Abe pleaded as he shucked his arms into his jacket. “I'm just going out to find out if there's any updates from the printing presses. I promise, I'll be back in an hour or two.”

“Two hours Abe,” his wife said, picking up their son and holding him close to her as Abe also saw his father descend from the second floor, looking quite stern and concerned at the same time. “We still don't know what happened to Anna Strong. I don't want you to go missing as well, especially with it being so empty right now. Promise me, only two hours.”

“Two hours,” he said, in as reassuring of a voice as he could, giving her a brief kiss on the cheek before giving his son a brave smile.

As soon as he walked out of the house, the smile disappeared from his face as he lightly ran down the steps of the house, boots splashing in the muddy path. Looking around to see that there were still bewildered looks upon the people who lived in the area, he hurried as the pitter-patter of the early spring rain shower started to soak into his clothes. His worry for where Anna could be was currently outweighed by the fact that nearly every single British soldier in the city was not present. Ensign Baker and Major Hewlett had also left, with the latter citing that they had been called out to battle by General Clinton.

The fact that even a garrison commander such as Major Hewlett, was called outside of the city worried him, for the only soldiers that had been left behind were those who were still recovering from their injuries. The city was a hell of a lot more empty than it had been for what felt like ages, and its citizens were quite baffled. Rumors and wild speculations as to what had initially called the entire New York garrison forces out ran the gamut, but traders who had come in from the south had given them an idea of what was going on.

Washington had moved his forces in response to an attack on Princeton and Trenton by Cornwallis and Clinton was providing reinforcements. It was as Deputy Director Simcoe had stated – something big had drawn away British forces within New York, and that was exactly where he was headed – underground. He had two hours to get his counterpart and Anna's counterpart out of that hellish underground place.

“Woodhull!” he heard a familiar voice hiss his name as he halted and glanced over towards a dark alleyway to see Townsend waving him over.

Glancing up and down the street, he saw that others were not paying attention to him and hurried over. “Have you seen Samantha?” he asked.

“No, not today,” Townsend answered, shaking his head slightly. “She did stop by yesterday to drop off some food for me and the boys. Said she would have the city layout drawn and delivered to us today.”

“Look, remember what I told you about our future counterparts and those strange things that I saw in Setauket?” he asked. The man nodded in affirmation. “I need your help. I'm going to break my descendant and Anna's descendant out while there's no British soldiers around. Me and our ally down below were waiting for something like this to happen. Now that its happening, I need you to keep an eye on the well and help lift them up.”

“I can do that. Do you need the boys for anything?” Townsend asked.

“Well, deterring any curious people from the well would be a start.”

“All right, give me a moment,” the man said, disappearing back down the alleyway for a few minutes. Those few minutes felt like a lifetime but just as Abe was about to start tapping his foot in impatience on the muddy ground, Townsend returned and gestured for them to go.

Leading the way, Abe walked as fast as he dared to the area where the well was, not wanting to draw any undue attention to either him or Townsend with their pace. He heard snatches of conversations floating in the air between residents of the area, but most were just talking about how empty the city felt and how enormous it now was, now that the occupiers had left. Some were positive, some were negative, but more than once, Abe heard some more vehement discussions about British soldiers and their hospitality while in the city.

Soon, he and Townsend arrived at the well, with the steady rain soaking them quite thoroughly. Taking the rope that he had hidden under some boards near the well, he knotted it tightly against the well cap support before making a loop around the end. He hoped that both his descendant and Anna's descendant were able to stand – otherwise, he did not know how to get them out of that place.

Peering into the well, he could see a puddle where the well was open to the air, and dropped the rope down. It splashed and with a glance over towards Townsend, he climbed up and over and started to lower himself. As soon as he reached the ground, he glanced up to see Townsend give him a wave before the man's head disappeared, most likely keeping an eye out for any interlopers.

Hurrying down the tunnel while splashing through feet-high water that had accumulated because of the rain, earthen walls became smooth ones, and instead of the two guardsmen that awaited him at the entrance to an overly bright and too-smooth hall that the place possessed, it was Simcoe. “Deputy Director,” he said, skidding to a halt.

“I was hoping that you would show up soon, Woodhull,” Simcoe said, giving him an expectant look.

“Well, you did say that something big was going to draw out New York troops,” he casually answered, trying not to betray at just how nervous he felt about what they were about to do. “So, here I am.”

“Indeed, and we don't have much time. With the Director also gone with the troops, they've changed up the patrol times down here. He's gotten suspicious in the past few weeks, and thus I could not smuggle any more information out to you. Nor have I found any leads on where Anna Strong is. I'm sorry.”

“Let's just get my descendant and Anna's out first. Then we can sort this out later,” he said as they quickly walked through smooth halls. He noticed that Simcoe's expression was pinched and that the man was looking this way and that a little more than he usually did. With the Deputy Director nervous, that only served to increase his unease.

What felt like too long of minutes that had passed, they finally arrived at the cell area, except that it was not the gallery viewing area that they entered, but long halls that had strange door-like entrances marked by rectangular pads about the size of a man's hand. Simcoe stopped by one of the pads that had numbers embedded into it and Abe saw him strike a rather long sequence of numbers into the pad. He realized that it was a locking mechanism of sorts that kept the cell doors closed, and as awed as he was with such mechanisms that came from the future, that awe was dampened as soon as the entrance to the cell clicked and snapped out slightly.

Brushing past him, he saw the Deputy Director wrench the cell door open some more, allowing a putrid scent to waft out of the cell. He wrinkled his nose slightly, as he stepped in just as Simcoe gingerly scooped up the young woman in his arms and carried her out. Abe followed the two out, and as soon as they were in the hall again, he saw the man try to stand Abigail Woodhull up. The young woman was not even fully awake and looked to be quite ill.

Abe rushed to her and took one of her arms and draped it over his shoulder before Simcoe let go. Even with his cold damp clothes still soaking him, she felt too light and a little too warm to be normal. He could hear her labored breathing, and the occasional bouts of shivering that encapsulated her entire frame, as if she were a leaf shivering in the gentlest of breezes. “She's burning up,” he said as he saw the Deputy Director approach what he could only assume to be Andrew Strong's cell.

The man hit a long string of numbers again, but just as Strong's cell door popped open, ear-piercing alarms started to wail. Bright white lights immediately turned red as Abe winced at the noise that was drilling into his head. As quick as it had been triggered, it was silenced, but that silence was quickly filled by the sounds of booted feet pattering on the floor. Abe unconsciously held his descendant a bit tighter towards him as guards dressed in the same clothes as the two he had seen before in previous escorts to where Simcoe was, filled the end of the hall they had entered through.

“Gentlemen,” Simcoe said, stepping away from the cell door, holding his hands up. Abe saw a tiny, spherical object of sorts within one of the man's hands. “This is all just a misunderstanding. Ah, ah!” The spherical object was raised a bit higher as the weapons that the guardsmen pointed at them twitched. “I wouldn't shoot me or the two behind me. You all should know what this is...”

He saw Simcoe turn his head slightly behind, saying, “Go, Mr. Woodhull. I shall keep them and whatever others that may be trying to set a trap for you here. Go now.”

Abe clenched his jaw, but did not say a word as he suddenly felt a hand on his left shoulder, tugging him back. He glanced back but didn't see anyone there, but at the next second, nearly jumped and shouted in fright as Washington's agent, Samantha Tallmadge appeared from thin air. There was a blocky L-shaped object in her hand and it was pointed at the guardsmen.

“Let's go, Woodhull,” she gruffly said, as the guards shifted uneasily just as Simcoe twitched his hand holding the spherical object again. “We'll come back for Andrew later.”

Seeing no other choice unless he wanted to be killed, he complied and scooped up his descendant into his arms. She was much too light for her size, and he took the lead as he glanced back to see Tallmadge slowly backing away from Simcoe and the guardsmen, with her weapon pointed at them. Looking back forward, he started to half-run, not wanting to stay in this infernal place any longer. As his footsteps pounded down the smooth halls, he eventually heard footsteps catch up and glanced behind to see Tallmadge keeping pace with him with her weapon still drawn.

“I hope you're not giving Simcoe any sympathy there, Woodhull,” she said. “Bastard doesn't really deserve any even though he's holding back the guards with his nifty EMP grenade.”

“And where the hell did you come from?” he asked, as he consulted his mental map of the place to get back out to the well tunnel, ignoring her quip about the Deputy Director.

“Followed you in. Twice,” she said. “Cloaking mechanism courtesy of a nifty upgrade that was done to my robotic horse. Hope you know where you're going.”

“I do. Simcoe gave me a map of this place,” he ground out as he clutched his descendant tighter towards him, trying not to jar her too much as she whimpered in pain.

Their flight towards freedom was unimpeded and soon, the bright lights of the underground area turned into murky darkness that was followed by smooth walls transforming into earthen walls. However, their destination was just ahead, and even though it was still raining, there was still enough light from the well shaft to illuminate the area.

Abe stopped before the rope still hanging and placed his descendant down on her own two feet, allowing her to lean on him. Tugging the rope, he saw Townsend's head peer over a moment later. “Come on,” he said as he returned his attention to his descendant, who was still whimpering in pain. His heart constricted tightly at just how bruised and injured she looked and how much she must have gone through at the hands of those down below. “We're almost there,” he soothingly said, shifting his hold on her so that Tallmadge could drape the expanded foot ring to wrap around her chest.

Tightening the knot around her, he glanced up to see Townsend looking down and shouted, “Pull!”

Slowly, the young woman was lifted up, but a little after she was what Abe could estimate as half-way up the well, he heard something rumbling down the tunnel. Moments later, there was a brief whine that seemed to come from within his head but as quickly as it appeared, it disappeared. However, with that strange noise also came the audible dying whine that was close to him as he saw Tallmadge shake her weapon for a moment.

“Shit,” she cursed, or at least he thought it was a curse, considering how close it was to 'shite'. “That was the EMP grenade. Simcoe just released the fucking EMP grenade.”

“So?” he said as she shoved him her weapon before suddenly stripping out of her dress right in front of him. “Oy!” he protested, hearing fabric rip and buttons pop as he turned away to give her some privacy. “What the hell are you doing?! Are you insane?!”

“Pistol, Woodhull,” she curtly said, as Abe refused to turn back as she snatched the weapon from him. “That EMP grenade has most likely shut off whatever barriers the facility has holding back the water that should be flooding underground here.”

Abe realized that her words, however strange and confusing they were, were true as he glanced down to see that instead of feet-level water, it was already ankle-high. It was also rapidly rising. “Oy, Townsend!” he shouted, looking up to see that his descendant was still in the midst of being hoisted. “Hurry! It's starting to fill up!”

Tallmadge cursed again, as she stepped up next to him, dressed in her underclothes. “Dammit, Townsend,” she shouted, “We're going to fucking drown in the next minute!”

It was not until the water level had risen to at least their thighs that the rope was finally thrown down again. By then, Abe was already shivering uncontrollably, due to how cold the water was. “Grab it and go, Woodhull!” Tallmadge said, shoving him towards the rope. “For fuck's sake, just go!”

He grabbed it and hoisted himself up as quickly as he could, as he heard Tallmadge splash behind him. His legs found purchase on the side of the well wall, but when he looked back down, all he could see was water. There was no sign of the woman. His despair was cut short as moments later, he saw her emerge from the water, spluttering and clutching onto the end of the rope with all of her might. The water was churning, trying to drag her away and under as it flowed through the tunnel to whatever destination it was going to, but she was fighting to keep herself above it. And the water was still rising.

He glanced up as he heard an awful creak of wood over the sound of rushing water and realized that the post that he had tied the rope to was not going to hold. He tried to move up more, trying to continue to escape the rising water above the well, but he could see the post start to bend quite a bit. Hands suddenly grabbed the rope, and he heard the echoed shouts of, “Pull!” rattle down the well.

Little by little, both he and Tallmadge were slowly hauled up the side of the well. Several hands pawed at his back, helping him climb out of the well as Abe blearily blinked and saw that the men who had helped Townsend were of the beggar cabal. A few moments later, Tallmadge was also lifted up from the end of the rope, coughing and spluttering.

He laid there on the muddy ground for a moment, letting the rain fall into his eyes, but rolled up as soon as he saw Tallmadge attempt to get up. She was soaked through, and her wet underclothes were doing nothing to provide any sort of modest covering to what she looked like without clothes. He turned his gaze from her as he saw Townsend shoo his friends away from leering at her. Fortunately, he was distracted by the fact that his descendant was leaned against the outer wall of the well, curled up and still shivering.

“It's all right,” he said, approaching and crouching down as he shucked his partially wet jacket off and placed it over her shoulders. He wished he had a blanket of sorts, but this was the best he could do. “You're free, Abigail.”

“Who...” she slurred, just as he saw out of the corner of his eyes, Tallmadge also crouching. There was an overly large jacket draped over her too, and he recognized it to be Townsend's jacket.

“Woodhull,” he said, clasping his descendant's hands, wincing at just how hot her skin was. “Abraham Woodhull. I'm your ancestor.”

“She's got a bad fever,” Tallmadge said, placing a hand on the young woman's forehead. “There's medicine from my era at Morristown that I know might help her. We can't keep her here.”

“Go, Tallmadge,” he said, nodding. “It's okay. Townsend, the others, and I will search for Andrew Strong. His cell was unlocked. Maybe he found another way out before Simcoe released whatever he released. Maybe we'll also be able to find Anna.”

“We'll find them, Miss Tallmadge,” Townsend spoke up. “If you would please wait a few minutes, we'll find a horse for you and the young lass here.”

“Don't worry, I got one right here,” she said, standing up and pulling out a cube-like object that fit in the palm of her hand from in between her ill-clothed bosom.

Abe gaped mostly in wonder, as did a few others of Townsend's beggar group, as Tallmadge quickly placed the cube on the ground and pressed something on it, transforming it into a horse of sorts. Except that even though it was skinned in chestnut color with a flowing mane and tail, red eyes stared out where there should have been dark eyes.

She mounted the beast with expert ease before reaching out, indicating that she wanted the young woman to be passed to her. Abe gently lifted up his ancestor, with some help from Townsend, and together, they helped the young woman up so that she was sitting slouched in front of Tallmadge. “I'll be back, guys,” Tallmadge said looking at them as she adjusted the grip on her charge and on the rein of the strange beast. “I'm not going to leave you here if the British return. I'll be back to help. I promise.”

“Thank you, and good luck,” Abe answered just as she kicked the sides of her horse and galloped away. Despite the relief he felt now that his descendant could no longer be used as a pawn in whatever games were being played, he could not help but shake the feeling that something was incredibly wrong.

* * *

_Monmouth_

 

“Keep that powder dry!”

Ben glanced up from the map as he heard the sharp shouts of soldiers half-running about in the camp. Had it been a clear, sunny day, they would have already been out and arrayed in the battlefield, ready to challenge the British-Britannian forces again. The _plop-plop_ of rain continued to patter down, seemingly endless in just how much water it was pouring into the area – already flooding the creek that they had used to cut off Clinton's forces yesterday. Misery hung in the air, along with chills, for it was an unusually early and intense spring rainstorm. Powder for flintlocks and the artillery had been moved indoors just as the storm began before the break of dawn.

Adding to the miserable weather was the fact that most of the soldiers had slept uneasily. Even with increased patrols, there had been several attempts by Britannian forces at crossing the field that ended in skirmishes. Fortunately, the 2nd Legionnaires were well-versed in such warfare and held the line, but even they were quite exhausted after days of non-stop riding and yesterday's battle. Many of them were alert, but several rounds of watered-down coffee had been passed out to everyone, and even more was being brewed at the moment.

He estimated that he had gotten most likely only about an hour of solid sleep, and even that had been uncomfortable, for he had felt it was quite unfair for the Legionnaires and Lafayette's men to take watch in the most dangerous area of camp while others tried to sleep. Thus he had joined his counterpart and the Brewsters-two down in their carved 'trenches'. It was part pit, foxhole as someone had told him, part elongated tunneling system that allowed them to navigate to positions without too much exposure above ground. Brewster had given him a brief explanation as to how this type of warfare had come about and how their modern warfare evolved from that.

To him, it seemed that politeness and the 'rules of war' had eventually been tossed to the side as selfishness along with a mad show of power by all countries of the world were put on display. Gentlemanly conduct was no longer the norm as subversive and backstabbing techniques to win battles ruled men's minds. Over a year ago, Ben would have thought that completely absurd and would have wondered how society functioned, but now... he partially understood why it was the way it was.

For glory and for freedom was what the rally cries called out, but no one ever mentioned just how much would be sacrificed or lost in a single battle, much less the entire war. His descendants and their friends had seen so much destruction and death that they wanted to end battles as quickly as possible to minimize casualties. Tossing out the 'rules of war' was the only way they knew how to fight – and it was a dirty fight for them.

He was about to glance down back at the map when the familiar voice of Hamilton shouting, “Make way, make way!” echoed through the camp. Moments later, he heard the squelching noise of boots upon the muddy ground and the tent flap to the planning tent rattled with the aide's entrance. “General Washington, sir!” Hamilton said, looking quite thoroughly like a drowned rat with an extremely red-colored face. “Britannia's moving!”

Those two words caught the attention of every person that had been standing around the battle planning map. Ben had noticed that his counterpart had sharply looked up and started moving towards the entrance just as Washington swiftly walked from the head of the table and took the proffered binoculars from Hamilton. Following the rest of the commanders out, there were multiple clicks that filled the air as they all took out their varied spyglasses. The only two exceptions were that Tallmadge and Washington held binoculars.

Even without the incredible details that that particular advanced object afforded, Ben could still see the vague, blurry forms of soldiers not dressed in the bright red jackets of British forces. They were pushing something blocky, big, and covered in tenting canvas out of the forest, but try as he might, he could not identify it.

“What the hell...” he heard his counterpart murmur.

“Language!” Washington immediately admonished, causing Ben to briefly remove his eye from his spyglass only to see that neither men had moved from where they had been standing.

“Seven... no ten men on the west, unarmed,” his counterpart continued to say. “Running with it... stopping. Are they actually removing the cover?” Ben pressed his eye to the spyglass again, and could see blurred movements of the tenting being moved as his counterpart continued to narrate, saying, “That can't be... what did they do to the Gatlings?”

“Is it not true that those types of weapons cannot function in the rain, erm, General... Tallmadge?” Lee asked.

“Yeah,” Tallmadge answered as Ben put his spyglass down again and glanced over. “They can work for a few minutes if its a steady pour like today, but because of how much heat they generate, they can't be encapsulated within a shell... everything internal to its workings is exposed to the air to help cool it down faster... sir.”

“Is there a growth in firepower if they are clustered together?” Arnold asked. “A better chance of hitting something vital, like a grapeshot versus a single ball of iron?”

“Maybe...” Tallmadge began, looking quite worried. But that worry was changed not a split-second later to realization and horror as Ben saw him drop the binoculars, eyes wide, for a moment before putting them back up to peer through them, and then dropping the back down for a second time. “Evacuate your men, General Washington! Evacuate them now!”

“What? What is it man?” Lee demanded as all of the other commanders also put their spyglasses down, many of them expressing several degrees of confusion on their faces.

“That--” Tallmadge jabbed his entire left arm towards the field “--is funneling all power from the four Gatlings into a single shot. A cannon, if you will, that can possibly reach and incinerate our position here.”

“That's absurd,” Lee began, but immediately fell silent as Washington held up a hand to silence him.

“How far should we fall back?” Washington asked in an eerily calm tone.

“I don't know,” Tallmadge admitted. “I don't know how they did that, but we usually don't produce cannons like that. If they've cobbled something together with the Gatlings that's just as powerful as laser cannons, we need to fall back to at least the woods beyond the courthouse. Now. Forget supplies--”

“Sir!” Bradford interrupted, “something's happening across the field!”

Ben raised his spyglass, and even without the binoculars and in such a dreary day, it looked quite clear as to what was happening. A pinpoint red dot had formed at the topmost Gatling, while there seemed to be a haze of red that surrounded the other three Gatlings.

“It's powering up,” he heard his counterpart say. “Two minutes tops--”

Not another word was uttered as a ear-splitting crackle of thunder was heard that rumbled across the sky, just as a bolt of lightning pierced down from the heavens. Ben's vision was washed in a blindingly bright light, but as quick as it came, it suddenly disappeared, leaving him with spots floating across his vision.

“What in God's name is that?!” both Arnold and Greene exclaimed at the same time as the spots in Ben's vision faded. Blinking several times to further rid himself of the spots, he brought his spyglass up and saw that there was a mass of people in the field that separated them from the Britannian soldiers and their advanced Gatling cannon.

“Major Jefferson?” he heard his counterpart whisper in surprise. “I thought... Jesus Christ... that's...”

The binoculars abruptly slipped from Tallmadge's hands as Ben looked over to see that his counterpart sprint from where he had been standing, pulling out and throwing the cubed robotic horse to the ground. Said mechanical horse rose from its storage within seconds, and just as he saw his counterpart leap up and onto the horse, activating the liquid metallic-black armor, he knelt down and picked up the binoculars. Raising it to his eyes, he peered through and focused on the mass of people that had abruptly arrived. They looked to be wearing the mottled colors of the future-people's uniform, but it was a particular cavalryman and the number etched on the horse that caught his attention as he heard his counterpart gallop away.

[711]

“That's...” he began, feeling his breath leave him for a moment, quite stunned at what he was seeing. “That is Lieutenant General Georgia Washington of the United States Army.”

As soon as that declaration left his lips, the Britannian weapon fired.

 

~*~*~*~

 


	15. Gunpowder, Laser Rifles, Treason, and Plot (What Plot?) [Pt. 2]

**Chapter 15: Gunpowder, Laser Rifles, Treason, and Plot (What Plot?) [Pt. 2]**

 

For all the strange sounds that the advanced weapons produced, there was a moment of pure silence that followed the arrival of a host of the US Army. It was in that silence that the strangest of sounds filled the air, sounding at first like a rather mistuned horn being played by an angry swarm of bees before escalating in volume just as the enormous red bolt was fired. But at the moment when the combined Gatling cannon was fired, a low hum that tickled teeth started up and seemingly wailed into a high-pitched tone answered the Britannian weapon.

_Pzztwoooot_!

Ben did not know what it was that lanced out of the the future-army's mass, except that he was about to see spots again as a green bolt that was comparable to the size of the Gatling cannon's bolt lanced out. The two bolts collided over the battlefield, causing everyone to raise their arms across their eyes to shield them as sound of millions of glass shattering filled the air. But even that was short-lived as not a second later, a tremendous explosion swept through the battlefield.

He lowered his arm just as he saw the fiery inferno that had engulfed the barren field scatter as a boom that rattled his teeth and filled the depths of his chest swept across, carrying a rather thick bed of dark smoke. A gust of hot wind blew tents, crates, even some men over in the camp, and he was not the only one to turn away from it. As swift as it had arrived, it was gone, and just as things around the camp settled back down, the cold rain returned.

Coughing as the thick smoke irritated his chest and trying to wipe the tears away from his eyes, he could hear exclamations of blasphemy and of the Devil's work at play from many of the men in the camp. A few of the commanders were also coughing and trying to wave away the irritating smoke. Blearily looking up and around, he was dismayed that he could only see bare hints of an outline of the people around him, but it looked as if Washington had been unhurt... at least he thought it was his commander who was standing next to Hamilton who had been standing next to him.

They were fortunate, though, that when the rain returned, a cool breeze had also returned, and soon, the smoke had been thinned enough to a fog-like state that they were able to see the beginnings of the destruction that had been rendered. Ben could not help but gape in awe and in utter fear at just what had happened in the aftermath of the collision. A former barren battlefield surrounded by small bluffs and trees was no more.

The explosion had created a wide and deep depression that stretched from near the area where the newly-arrived future-army was, and past the where the Gatling cannon had been. Of those who had manned the cannon – he pulled up the binoculars again and peered through them – they were gone. Utterly gone. Trees that lined the edge of the depression were still on fire, but it was movement near where the future-army was that caught his attention.

Focusing the binoculars on the future-army, he saw a lone rider – his counterpart judging from the etched number on the horse's side – gallop out to them. Lowering the binoculars, he glanced over to see that there was a frown of sorts on Washington's face. As his commander slowly lowered Hamilton's binoculars, he heard him say, “Now, we shall see if friend or foe remain, and if friend, will they be allies to our cause.”

“Excellency,” Lee began in a hesitant tone, “I don't think it's wise--”

“I don't think it is wise to continue to allow the men to murmur about the Devil at work here, Charles,” Washington interrupted, handing the binoculars back to Hamilton. “If you have noticed, we had been spared by the timely arrival of those down there. Providence has granted us this boon and the damage done to British-Britannia forces – their weapon has been destroyed, along with the shelter of woods.”

“I... understand, sir,” Lee said, nodding slightly.

“Hamilton and Laurens, please ready the horses and pass word that Lafayette is to also join us. Major Tallmadge, you are to ride with us. Your experience and expertise in this matter is required,” Washington said, surprising Ben with his words as the aides immediately snapped to and carried out their orders.

He could feel the inquisitive glances that the other commanders, especially the intense gaze that Arnold had pinned him with, but he dared not shrink from such scrutiny. There was truth in his commander's words, but it felt achingly hollow to him for it seemed as if Washington only needed him there for proof that the newcomers had arrived in the 18th century. From the tone that Washington had given his order, Ben knew that he was not there to advise at all – Washington still held him in contempt.

“Yes, sir,” he answered, giving a nod to his commander and hurried away.

He could still feel a few inquisitive eyes follow him as he quickly made his way through the camp and towards the edge of it where he and what was left of the cavalry portion of 2nd Continentals had tied their horses for the night. It was near Lieutenant Adams's position in the trenches, and also near where a few men from Rogers's Rangers and Lafayette's Musketeers had positioned themselves. The rest from the two groups were in the more densely populated areas of the trenches near what Tallmadge had termed 'Battalion CP'.

“Heya Ben,” he heard Caleb say as he arrived at the trenches, seeing him climb up and out of the earthen ditch. “Hell of a light show, wasn't it?”

“Yeah,” he said, as he untied the rein of his horse from the low stumpy post that it had been tied to, though he was momentarily distracted by something odd happening within the trench. There was a soldier, one of Tallmadge's own, who was sitting on the lip of the trench facing south, seemingly munching on something small, pale-yellow, and grain-like that was filled up and over the brim of the soldier's bowl-shaped helmet sitting on that soldier's lap. One of Lafayette's men had reached over and curiously took a piece of the strange food of sorts to try it before making a face at just how awful it tasted.

“Ah yeah,” Caleb said, chuckling as he too noticed what had distracted Ben. “Dunno what Corporal Hart was talking about 'sitting back and watching the show', but I reckon it has something to do with what you're untying your horse for – big meeting and all.”

“Caleb...” he began.

He did not get to finish his exasperated annoyance at the unconcerned attitude of some of Tallmadge's soldiers as he heard Lieutenant Adams bark, “Hart! What the hell are you doing?! You're supposed to be manning the Gatling, not sitting there and eating your popcorn like this is some fucking rom-com!”

The pale-yellow grain flew all over the place as the soldier scrambled up and plunked the helmet back on, saying, “Sir, yes, sir!”

Ben ignored the rest of the antics of those within the trenches as they resumed their careful watch, hearing the hoof beats and whinnying of horses approaching. Mounting his own horse, he glanced down for a moment as Caleb patted the side of his horse's neck. “Don't worry Benny-boy, we've got yours and Washington's back covered. Have fun out there and let me know what this famous Lieutenant General Georgia Washington is like, eh?”

“Will do, Caleb,” he said, “and thanks.”

Turning his horse and kicking the sides to put it into a trot to catch up and join Washington and the small entourage of aides, he wrinkled his nose at just how sharp of a smell lingered in the air the closer they approached the newly arrived future-people. Tallmadge was already there, at the forefront of the group, with his liquid armor dissolved. There was another man sitting upon his own robotic horse, dark-skinned with wildly-colored hair in unnaturally bright colors that included a vividly bright shade of green. The man had the same oak leaf badge upon his own bowl-shaped helmet – meaning the man was a Major – possibly the Major Jefferson that he had heard his counterpart mention in surprise earlier. There was one other rider sitting on the robotic horse etched [711] in between Tallmadge and the unusual-looking officer, but she – as he would presume because of the horse – was still wearing her metallic liquid armor.

Others were upon their own robotic horses behind to the two, but all of them were covered in the liquid black armor, looking quite menacing and intimidating. Weapons that looked similar to the laser Gatlings, except with long thin barrels and several feet of coiled metal around the barrels sat amongst the mass. There was something massive and cannon-liked shaped that was also sitting within the newly arrived, except that it was facing towards the south. Judging from the steam and hissing noise it emitted with the rain that was hitting the shell, Ben had to guess that it was a cannon of sorts and the one that had emitted the green bolt that saved their lives.

Washington halted his horse before the host and Ben, Lafayette, Hamilton, and Laurens did the same, though Ben could clearly see that the black man on Lady Washington's – he wasn't sure if the mental term he had for the future Washington was correct but it was the only way he could differentiate between his Washington and his counterpart's Washington – right raise his eyebrows slightly. Silence and the pitter-patter of rain fell between the two groups, but it was Lady Washington who broke that silence by retracting her liquid armor back into the horse, revealing her appearance.

Stark, snow-white, tousled short hair framed an absurdly youthful but eerily pale face, though her hair was partially hidden by the bowl-shaped helmet she wore. Three golden stars were etched upon the helmet, signifying her rank, but it was her eyes – crystal cold, hard, and frighteningly red in color that caused the hitch in Ben's breathing as he found himself unable to meet her eyes for more than a few seconds. Apart from her physical appearance, her uniform was of the same pattern and color as the rest of the future-army, but the only other thing that added to the strange appearance of Lieutenant General Georgia Washington was the fact that she was quite _short._

Her horse was the same size as the ones that Tallmadge and the other officer, but in her seated height, the top of her head barely cleared the tips of the robotic horse's ears. Given her size and youthful appearance – had she not been wearing the three-starred helmet, Ben would have thought her as a very odd-looking child trying to play at war. And with that thought immediately came a self-admonishment for he knew that he had no right to judge what went on in the future, much less conceive notions that made him ashamed even when it was not voiced out loud. His counterpart's Washington was a descendant of sorts from his General Washington, and given just how devoted he had seen his counterpart behave towards any news or spoke of Lady Washington, that in itself was enough for him to extend some respect towards the woman. He was sure there was a very good reason why someone with such an appearance such as her was a Lieutenant General and most likely second-in-command of all US Army forces.

“General Washington, I presume?” Lady Washington asked, though it sounded more like statement than anything else. Any thoughts of just how youthful the general looked was completely wiped away from Ben's mind with just the tone of her voice. That was the voice of years and years of experience, of living through harrowing times, and of surviving whatever life had thrown at her.

“Yes, and may I presume the same, General Washington?” Washington answered.

“Absolutely,” she answered. “And from whom I see with you, Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton, Lieutenant Colonel Laurens, Marquis de Lafayette, and Major Tallmadge--” Ben nodded in affirmative to her questioning of his rank “--that it is true that elements of our forces from our second War for Independence arrived here. Most curious of circumstances.”

“Indeed,” Washington agreed. “However, we are still in the midst of battle, and though we thank you for your intervention before that Britannian weapon was able to reach us, it would be best if we conducted this briefing in the camp.”

“If you would please allow me to integrate my forces with those already in the trenches and patrols, I think it would be wiser if my 5,000 men and women did not flood your camp,” she said.

“I agree. Hamilton, Laurens, Tallmadge, and Lafayette, please assist in the integration and distribution of the perimeter patrols.”

“Jefferson and Tallmadge, I'll leave the perimeter layout to you two,” Lady Washington said as the sounds of the metallic armors being retracted by all of the others in the group briefly filled the air. Washington turned his horse around and a moment later, was joined by his counterpart. As soon as the two left the immediate vicinity of the camp, Ben found that he was not the only one curiously looking at the retreating backs of the two most powerful commanders on this side of the Atlantic. He could see Washington gesticulating into the air with a hand, while Lady Washington was nodding before making a few gestures of her own, as if explaining something.

“I don't think I'll ever get used to that,” he heard an unfamiliar voice quip. Glancing over he saw that it was the bright green-haired, dark-skinned officer who had commented and brought his robotic horse parallel with his. Turning from watching their commanders return to the heart of the camp, the officer stuck out a hand towards him, grinning quite widely saying, “Major Tuomas Jefferson. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“Major Ben Tallmadge, and likewise,” he answered, taking the man's hand and shaking it.

As the overly enthusiastic officer introduced and shook hands with the other officers, Ben caught his counterpart's glance over at him, which looked somewhat amused and sympathetic at the same time. Jefferson's countenance reminded him greatly of Samantha's chirpy and cheerful attitude, to which Ben suddenly found himself missing. And with that thought also came a longing to see Natalie's face again, for the last time he had seen her, or Samantha for the matter, was the day he had left for Boston months ago.

“All right, so where should we set the artillery?” Jefferson said, returning Ben's attention to the present, after introductions were finished, clapping his hands together and rubbing them in frightening glee. “I got twenty-five Gauss cannons and one big motherfucker of a laser cannon that we nicked from Westpoint. They were primed for action against Sheridan's Rangers, but hey, Britannian forces are better than those bastards.”

“Gauss cannons?” Laurens asked, eyes lighting up in fascination. “What are those? And was that thing that spat out the green bolt the laser cannon?”

“Oh,” Jefferson, nodding with a smile on his lips as he ambled his horse over to where Laurens was. “You and me, Colonel Laurens, we're going to be new best friends... not that you were Benji because I thought you and the 2nd Legionnaires died last year, but me and the lieutenant colonel here... Finally, someone who appreciates artillery like I do.”

If Ben's counterpart's sigh of exasperation and shaking of his head was anything to go by, Ben was struck by the fact that these members of the US Army were stranger than he initially thought and still could surprise him with their behavior. Hamilton's strangely glowering look towards Jefferson and Lafayette's bark of amused laughter did not help the situation. “You should talk to General Knox, Tuomas. He's here, he's commanding the gunpowder cannons... he'll be interested too...” Ben's counterpart said in a slightly defeated tone.

“Nah,” Jefferson dismissively said. “The old farts never appreciate the finer intricacies and details of how stuff works, especially when it comes to Little Hans. All they want is 'does it work, yes or no'... no appreciation at all as to _how_ it gets done and what it can do and cannot do. I'm just an artillery engineer, not a miracle worker.”

“Who happens to command the largest artillery group on this side of the timeline,” Tallmadge finished up. Ben was slightly confused as to who was 'Little Hans', but had a feeling that the name referred to the cannon that had spat out the green bolt. He did not receive an explanation as his counterpart continued, saying, “Twenty five Gauss cannons? Commander Creighton appeared in Boston during the winter and got word to us that you guys were supposed to be goners since October or something. Last we heard, you were facing off against a host of Sheridan's Rangers. Just how many were there?”

“Ah yeah, and that's what we all last remember, Benji,” Jefferson answered, scratching the back of his head. “700 or so of them bearing down upon us, and me and the rest of my men barely getting our asses and cannons up onto the hill to try to repel them back. Wonder where they went, but hey, I'm not complaining too much.”

“I didn't realize that their numbers were that numerous,” Tallmadge murmured before saying in a louder tone, “All right. British and Britannian forces might be rethinking of advancing towards us again after that demonstration with the laser cannon. We'll need to set up patrols and trench lines towards the southeast and make sure that they don't try to sneak off towards Philadelphia or try to flank us without our knowing. Tuomas, take your people and spread the artillery along the trenches. We cobbled together some Gatlings, but I highly doubt anyone wants to step into the crater that was just created, so place them closer to the southwest and the woods that ring around the camp. Position Little Hans with General Knox's cannons. We'll try to disguise it with the others”

“Will do, Benji,” the officer answered smartly before clapping Laurens quite heartily on the back who looked a bit unsure at such a gesture, saying, “Come on, sir. I'll show you how these little treasures work!”

As Jefferson and Laurens rode off, with the former whistling for his men to move their strange cannons that were lashed to their horses, Tallmadge said, “Captain Fujiwara, take your battalion to the northwest woods. If you would please, Lafayette, inform the patrols up there of what will be happening.”

“As you wish,” the Frenchman said, just as Ben saw a rather willowy woman with the shiniest black hair that he had ever seen framing a pale-yellow oval face with dark eyes nod and turned to issue a few orders with only hand gestures. A fairly decent amount of the army that had been left after Jefferson's departure start their migration towards the northwest.

“Major Varma, you will set up post on the southeast and be the furthest out from the Continental edge of the camp. You're overwatch until we rotate tonight.”

“Yes, sir,” a woman with equally dark hair as Captain Fujiwara but with sharper facial features and olive-colored skin answered, gesturing for her battalion, which was the majority of those left, to move out.

That left at least a quarter of the men, by Ben's estimate, left in what was left of the field they had arrived in. But Tallmadge was not done as he said, “Captain Horn, if you would please take your people and introduce them to the guardsmen that guard General George Washington. We'll need to integrate both protective details now that both commanders are present. Hamilton here will show you the way. Oh, and please don't try to kill the guardsman named Thomas Hickey. He hasn't done anything yet to warrant his original fate.”

“Yes, sir,” Horn, an unassuming-looking man that Ben did not even notice at first, gruffly answered. Only ten men and women left with the captain as Hamilton gave a nod towards Tallmadge before turning to leave. Curiosity piqued within Ben as he thought he saw a familiar face within the ten, but could not have – he knew that Natalie was in Philadelphia and wouldn't have been among those here... could she?

“And the rest of you lucky peoples,” his counterpart said, returning his attention to those that remained, “get to relieve the people in the trenches behind me. Happy foxholing, and please for fuck's sake, don't bother Robert Rogers.” The murmurs that started up with the mention of Rogers added some much needed amusement and grounding in Ben's thoughts after what had happened. However, as the rest of Lady Washington's forces started off, he heard his counterpart ask, “Major Tallmadge, please ride with me for a moment.”

“Yes, sir,” he answered, bringing his horse parallel with his counterpart's horse as the men and women streamed around them, carrying out their orders.

“Watch yourself, Ben,” his counterpart said in a low enough tone that he had to lean slightly to the side to even hear his words. “There are three Russian Secret Service agents within Captain Horn's bodyguards platoon. How they fell under my Washington's command, I don't even want to begin to know, but you should know that one of the three does not take kindly to my presence in particular.”

“You have a beard, and I don't, sir,” he pointed out, frowning slightly.

“Yes, I do, but I wanted to warn you just in case you get confronted by the man that was next to Captain Horn. I'm hoping that that man is a little smarter than most give him credit for and won't harass you.”

“Thank you... sir, for the warning,” he answered, wanting to press for the reason, but deciding not to, for the tone of his counterpart's words told him that it was a private matter that he would be better off not getting involved in. And as the thought settled, he found himself surprisingly not wanting to get further involved, for the world that he knew it was already upended and unfamiliar. As much as he found the entire concept of what the future held for them fascinating, this current situation felt like a nightmare that was spiraling out of control and that no one could wake up from.

* * *

_Meanwhile, in Morristown..._

 

Nathaniel carefully shut the barn's door as he heard the orange-and-white striped cat scratch and bat at one of the walls that surrounded the barn. He had not wanted to initially put the mouser within the barn because of just how many breakable objects there were within. However, since discovering the rather enormous nest of field mice that had settled within the crate that had contained a small blunderbuss project that he had been working on for the better part of winter, he had no other choice. Not if he wanted to be rid of the mice once and for all. He was thankful though, that the family of mice had not settled within the Turtle – that was a project that he really did not want to attempt to repair...again.

Ensuring that the barn's doors was barred for the moment, he turned and strolled through the camp, ignoring the dreary, cold rain that was soaking into his coat and had sent men still recovering from their ordeal over the winter shuffling back into their tents for warmth. It was rather lonely and extremely quiet now that Washington and his men had left the camp to engage Cornwallis and Clinton's forces, but he rather enjoyed the relative silence.

His cheerful mood was spoiled though, with the pounding of hooves rumbling across the muddy ground as he and a few other recovering soldiers who had curiously peeked out of their tents looked up to see a blur enter the camp. The blur abruptly halted, and he frowned more in concern than in puzzlement as he saw that it was one of the fascinatingly strange robotic horses that had arrived at camp. Upon a closer look as not only he, but some other curious men approached, the rider was identified to be Samantha.

Wearing only a rather large brown jacket that was soaked through with rain that didn't cover the thin pantalettes, she was holding a second person in the saddle – a young woman also draped in a darker brown jacket with tattered clothing. “Mr. Sackett!” Samantha cried out, spotting him. “Help!”

Obliging, for it greatly concerned him to see that the woman Samantha was holding was unresponsive and was almost hanging off of the saddle like a rag doll, he hurried over, gesturing for some of the more able-bodied but still recovering men to help him. Both women were soaked through to their skin from the rain, as he and a couple of others helped to lift the other young woman off of the horse.

Nathaniel winced at just how overly warm the young woman was to his touch as he wrapped his arms under her back and knees. She was also much too light for her height as he carried her to the house. Barking a couple of orders to those men who helped hold the door open to let him through to fetch warm water and cloth, he carried the young woman up the stairs and into the room where Samantha and Natalie had occupied during their stay.

Gently putting her on the bed, he folded the other side of the bed's blankets over her, tucking it up to her chin as he remembered doing to his young daughter or son whenever either child had come down with a fever. It was not the eccentric nature of Nathaniel Sackett that ruled his mind, but the instinct of a father wanting to do everything he could so that his child could live. It didn't matter if this unknown woman whom Samantha had brought back with her wasn't even his biological child, what matter was the fact that he had seen heart-breaking despair in Samantha's eyes, whom he considered a daughter of sorts.

He missed his children and his wife, but it was for the sake of their safety that he served Washington and assisted is friend in this damnable war. The very presence of his descendant, Natalie, along with Samantha had filled a small portion of that heartache. When he had received word of Ridgefield being attacked, it had taken all of his will and then some to stay as nonchalant as he could while subtly sending help to his wife in the form of Caleb Brewster. He had not even told Washington about his children or wife's escape from Ridgefield until he had received a letter from his wife stating that they were safely in Boston.

Shaking his head slightly as he tsk'ed to himself, he rummaged through the small chest at the foot of the bed until he found Natalie's Continental soldier disguise. It was better than nothing else, he supposed as he pulled it out and shook it slightly. He heard the footsteps of people coming up the stairs and a moment later, the door to the room was pushed open as the two men he had sent to fetch water and cloth. Leaving the bucket and pile of cloth on a small end table, they left.

Nathaniel had not even fully laid out the fresh clothes when the door opened again and Samantha barreled in, carrying the rectangular tin from the barn that had a rather large red cross upon it. Natalie had transferred it from her donkey to the barn last year, and he remembered peering into the tin to see all sorts of wonderfully confusing items that could help heal a man faster than what they had for medicinal knowledge at the moment.

“Put on something warm, Samantha,” he admonished, as she set the tin down and tried to help him lay out the change of clothing for the injured young woman. “We can't have you also falling ill!”

The glare that she threw him was meant to be intimidating, but he had long suffered through his own children being as petulant as Samantha was doing right now – she had no hold on him in that aspect. He merely arched an eyebrow at her until she reluctantly left, before carefully uncovering the young woman from the blankets he had thrown on her. Unsightly bruises covered the edges of her face, but there were numerous splotches of dark purple and red running up and down her arms. Her neck, collarbone, even her chest – as he gently removed the jacket that had been draped over her along with the tattered shift of sorts – were covered in bruises; some fresher than others.

Whoever had beaten her was a complete monster, he decided, and should be shot on sight. He managed to carefully put the first layer of clothing upon her when Samantha returned, wearing her own Continental uniform disguise, sans the blue-white jacket and helmet. She helped him gently lift the young woman's trembling body up so that he could straighten the clothes across her back before laying her back down. Shifting the blankets so that they now covered the top part of her body, Nathaniel could not help but close his eyes in pure disgust at just how awful the young woman's legs looked through the tattered dark pantelettes of sorts she wore.

“Who is she?” he asked, running his eyes up and down her legs, noticing that there were more than just bruises from beatings that covered it – the legs looked like they had been broken and reset.

“Culpeper Agent 722, Abigail Woodhull,” Samantha softly stated.

“Oh,” he said, pausing for a moment as the young woman's surname and the number rattled him. It was the actions of Samantha carefully cutting apart Woodhull's tattered clothing with a pair of unusual-looking scissors that forced him to resume his own work.

“Why is it so empty, Mr. Sackett?” she asked as they carefully lifted one leg after another of the young woman to slide the soiled clothing out and away.

“Cornwallis unexpectedly attacked Trenton and Princeton, taking both towns. Then we got word from scouts saying that Clinton's emptied New York to reinforce Cornwallis with an additional 5,000 Britannian troops that were unaccounted for in Culper's reports last year. It seems that these particular Britannian troops just appeared out of nowhere. General Washington has taken the army to stop both of them,” he explained as they slowly slid trousers and stockings up Woodhull's legs.

“11,000 to how many?” she demanded.

“Estimates put Cornwallis at 15,000, and Clinton at 10,000. Washington had already sent messengers down to Philadelphia and to Connecticut a few days ago.”

“Christ on a pony,” she whispered.

“Indeed,” he agreed as he buttoned up the clothes while she stepped back to retrieve whatever she needed from the tin medicine box. “He was at Piscataway, but I think it is happening, whether or not this 'history' as you and your people claim, exists. Monmouth, Samantha. The Battle of Monmouth... and I fear that it will not bode well for us.”

“I can ride to Saratoga,” she said, bringing a few unfamiliar items out of the box and over to the bed. “I didn't get to fully charge my horse, but it will take me about 9 hours or so to get there. I can alert them and get them moving down to Monmouth. Hopefully Washington can hold until they arrive.”

He shook his head, “It will take weeks Samantha--” The abrupt halt of his words was not by choice but more in shock as he realized that Woodhull's eyes were open and that she was staring at them.

“Thank you for stating the current location of General George Washington,” Woodhull said before leaping up from the bed with much more agility and swiftness than he could imagine or anticipate. The last thing he saw was a stark blank wall in the room before he smashed into it, plunging him into darkness.

* * *

_Continental battle camp, Monmouth..._

 

“Major Tallmadge?”

Ben looked up from taking Caleb's whetstone to the edge of his sabre, for after yesterday's battle, the tip and first-third of his sabre looked a little blunted. The accented voice was somewhat familiar and it took him a second to remember where exactly he had heard it spoken before. It had been spoken by Natalie during their introduction to General Greene at Greene's residence in Philadelphia. However, the young woman who stood before him was not Natalie, but looked similar to her. He was fairly certain that this woman, whom he had seen among Captain Horn's guardsmen, was of relation to Natalie.

“May I help you, miss?” he politely asked, placing the sabre and stone to the side and stood up from where he had been leaning against the earthen wall of the trench. Climbing out, he dusted his hands clean so that he was now standing face-to-face.

“I am Irina Sackett, Natalya's sister. My brother, Mikhail, and I heard from your General Washington that she is here in this era and that she was assisting you in matters with regards to espionage?”

“Yes, she is here in this era, but not currently present at camp,” he carefully answered, unsure as to how much he should say with regards to his role in the matter of spying for the Continentals, or how much he should reveal to her. Even though she was of relation to Natalie, he didn't know her or her exact role within her General Washington's entourage. There was also the echoed warning of his descendant running through his thoughts – he didn't know how these 'Russian Secret Service' agents worked.

“Is she doing well?” the young woman asked. “Neither of us had seen her since before the start of her second year at Yale University.”

“I believe that my descendant, General Tallmadge, can answer that question better than I can. I've only known her for a little over a year and thus cannot speak on her health and wellness, Miss Sackett. I'm sorry,” he said, wanting to assuage her worry, but knowing that he could not, not unless he wanted to give out details that she was not privy to.

An unexpected disheartening look suddenly appeared on the young woman's face as she shook her head, saying, “I tried, Major, but Anatoly and Benji...they do not see eye-to-eye--”

“Irka!”

Ben was startled by just how forceful the single word shout was that turned heads up and down the trenches as the young woman jumped slightly and turned around. There was a man with dark, close-cropped hair, angular and square-jawed face approaching, and he could clearly see the thunderous expression on the man's face. He remembered catching a glimpse of the man earlier when Captain Horn had signaled for the future-guardsmen to move out.

The rest of the words that the man spoke were incomprehensible to him, but it was clear from the tone that he was telling the young woman to get away. She fired back some words in the same language that he spoke, but it was clear that she was not happy. He did not know what was going on, but it seemed that he was trying to exert some control over her actions, and she was resisting or did not want to be controlled – that made him angry.

However, before he could take any action, she immediately turned back to him and said, “I am sorry.” Before he could stop her, she dashed away, running past the dark-haired man. Ben met the dark-haired man's hateful glare thrown towards him without flinching before the man turned and stalked away.

“Problems holding onto a lass that's interested in you, Tallmadge?”

“Wha--?” he began, baffled as he turned to face the source of the question, only to see that it was Robert Rogers of all people, leaning against the trench wall with a insincere concerned look upon his face.

The irritation that briefly filled him was quashed when he heard his counterpart call out, “Tallmadge! Briefing!”

Ignoring whatever else Rogers was about to say, he snatched up his sabre and whetstone, sheathed the sabre, and angrily walked back up towards the heart of the camp. He didn't know what had transpired between the two Russian agents, but he knew that he needed to stay as far away from it as possible, especially since it involved his counterpart on some personal level. There were just some things he knew to not interfere with, and with what he hoped would be a battlefield briefing happening, he needed to keep his thoughts clear.

* * *

_Morristown_

 

“Oh, God, Mr. Sackett, can you hear me? Mr. Sackett?”

The world was fuzzy and full of a pounding headache as Nathaniel blinked the black spots from his vision. His forehead hurt quite a lot and as he started to regain his senses, with the world around him slowly settling down, he tried to move. It brought a fresh wave of pain that caused him to yelp.

“It's all right, Mr. Sackett! Take it easy, take it easy,” the soothing voice of Samantha said from next to him. Spindly fingers attached to thin hands helped him sit up from where he was lying and he had to close his eyes again as a wave of dizziness washed over him.

When he opened his eyes next, the world had settled and he was feeling a little better. The headache was still there, as was the pain on his forehead, but the need to throw up was not. He blearily blinked and looked up to see Samantha throwing her blue-white jacket on while saying, “Stay here, okay? You'll be fine. Just stay here. I'm going to look for Abby.”

“Abby?” he questioned as she dashed out of the room before he remembered what the two of them had been doing. Glancing to his right he saw that the blankets and pillows had been torn from the frame of the bed and that a part of the end of the bed was cracked. His spectacles were nowhere to be seen on the ground. Looking around the rest of the room, it looked like a rather fierce fight had taken place, but that Abigail Woodhull had managed to escape. The threat they had all been anticipating via the chained Peggy Shippen letters was real, but never had he thought that it would unfold like this. It had all been a very elaborately planned feint and they, the Culper Spy Ring, had fallen for it.

His realization at just what was about to happen was cut short with the pounding of footsteps up the stairs. “Goddammit,” he heard Samantha curse. “She took my horse and the invisibility module attached to it!”

“The carriage horses are out near the shed,” he said, wincing as he tried not to move his mouth too much to cause more pain to lance through him. “Take them and get to Monmouth as fast as you can, Samantha. She means to assassinate General Washington. Stop her.”

* * *

_Monmouth_

 

A year ago, had anyone told Ben that he would be sitting on his horse, getting ready to directly charge into British lines, he would have thought them incredibly addled in the mind. Or drunk. Or just mad with fever. A year ago, just as the winter was thawing and coming fresh off their victory at Trenton and Princeton, all of their lives had changed. Now, with spring arriving in this new year, Ben was sitting on his trusty steed, staring down at the approaching British lines on this formerly rainy and cloudy day, unafraid and ready to challenge them. Well, it was a stretch to say that he was unafraid, for even with reassurances by his counterpart and of the people, especially Lieutenant Adams who had informed him that he had personally seen to his horse, he still had some doubts.

The rain had stopped only an hour ago, but in that hour, scouts had returned and informed Washington and Lady Washington that British-Britannia forces were moving. It was not a southward march towards Philadelphia that governed their actions, but that they were curving from the southwest and headed towards the northeast. They were utilizing the heavily wooded areas near what was left of this area of Monmouth to try to hide their movements and to try to ambush the Continental-US Army forces from behind.

They answered that challenge by moving the majority of Lieutenant General Washington's forces first, for they were the fastest to intercept Cornwallis and Clinton. Early reports from scouts had told them that Clinton had spun off what was left of the 5,000 Britannian forces integrated within his troops to counter the offensive. Washington had then brought up the rear and now, lines were established between the under 20,000 soldiers of the British forces, and under 16,000 soldiers of the Continental Army.

However... neither Washington of either era were fools, and assumed that there would be Britannian forces left within the 18th century forces. That and there were also still the unknown factor of artillery not of this century possibly lingering. While Lieutenant General Washington would engage using infantry, she had ordered Major Jefferson to integrate the Gauss cannons with General Knox's cannons. They were currently lined up on a bluff behind the entire army, with the Gauss cannons hidden safely behind until needed. Knox had orders shell the incoming British forces and with the air still humid and the breeze light, the smoke from the cannons would hide the revelation of the more advanced cannons.

Marching at about 10,000 strong, was the majority of the Continental Army led by Generals Greene and Lee, but in front of that were the Continental light cavalry. It was an inverse of what they had performed yesterday with the cutting from the back to front, but not a speck of the black-green-brown patterned uniform or the glowing red eyes of robotic horses from the US Army heavy cavalry were seen in the ranks.

Ben could feel the impatience within his horse as it stamped a foreleg on the muddy ground while snorting. He, along with what was left of the 2nd Continental Light Dragoons' cavalry, and Bradford's cavalry were strung out in a single row across this massive battlefield. 10,000 Continental soldiers lined in two rows each with at least thirty men per row waited behind him, ready to fight once the cavalry were stymied in their charge.

The _pew-pew_ sounds of the advanced rifles buzzed faintly in the air, lighting up another battlefield just about a mile down from where he was sitting. There was also the acute smell of burning trees that lingered in the air. Lieutenant General Washington had already started to engage the Britannian forces that had been extracted out of Clinton's forces. The advanced cannon that had been named as 'Little Hans' by the US Army forces had been taken with Lady Washington and had already been fired towards the trees in the south to start the hazy smokescreen. She was to engage and hold the enemy forces there while the Continental tried to force the British to expose their artillery lines. That was the key in this battle today – they needed to stop the British artillery that was possibly reinforced by Britannian artillery so that they, the Continentals would have a chance to win.

But that was easier said than done as Ben looked out and saw the rather thick double-lines of British forces strung out longer than they, the cavalry were. He glanced over at Bradford who was sitting on his own horse next to him. The man looked as nervous as he felt – but it was the only way they would be able to win – to make the British forces think they were fighting solely against Continentals.

He drew his sabre out, and a moment later, heard Bradford do the same. There were no words of inspiration that he could say to his men now – all of them knew what was at stake and what they were fighting for. They had survived yesterday, a more harrowing fight than what they faced now. Musket balls would not hurt them during their charge, and only their skills with the horse and sword would allow them to survive today.

“They're ready,” he heard a familiar voice murmur from behind him, sounding slightly muffled but dared not to glance back. To British eyes, the Continental light cavalry formed a single line, but to the Continentals, they saw two. Hidden behind the front profiles of the Continentals were some of Tallmadge's cavalry, hand-picked by Tallmadge himself to fit and match each Continental cavalryman's profile while on horse.

With the sun past its zenith, shadows would be growing from either side of the field, and it was because of that, that Washington had come up with the plan to have a small portion of Tallmadge's cavalry 'shadow' the Continental cavalry during the charge. Once the Continentals crashed into the first few lines the heavy cavalry in their liquid black armor would take over and push the line further in, hopefully exposing the artillery. Knox and Jefferson would take care of the British and Britannian artillery. Greene and Lee would be following up from that charge with the 10,000 men, while Tallmadge would rejoin Lady Washington and Ben would rejoin the final, well-hidden ambush lines of a little less than 6,000 commanded by Arnold and Washington himself coming in from the forests to the east.

As if to reinforce his counterpart's words about Washington and the men to the east being ready, the thunderous thumps of Continental gunpowder cannons fired, with their deadly iron balls whistling through the air. Landing a few yards just shy of the slowly advancing lines of British soldiers, it showed Ben the extent and range that Knox currently had on the cannons. Several thumps from the back of the British lines answered the volley, and landed in the middle of the field that separated the two forces. They couldn't hit them either yet, but that was the marker for Ben to know just how much range the cannons had and with the pufts of smoke that billowed out from behind the British lines, that was how many men they had to push through to expose the artillery lines.

“Forward!” he and Bradford yelled at nearly the same time, pointing their sabres towards the British forces as the line of light cavalry slowly moved from standstill. In a few hoof beats, the sound of thunder across the ground, with the spray of mud and wet grass being flung to the side and back, filled the air. War and rally cries mingled in with the noise, and just as the light cavalry crossed the threshold for the British cannons' reach, the whistling sounds of cannonades were added. But it was much, much too late for the cannons as their rounds thumped on the ground where horses used to be a few second ago.

Keeping himself as steady as possible as he brought his sabre to bear, Ben saw the lines of British soldiers getting ready to fire. “Steady!” he called out, tightening his left hand's hold on the rein of his horse as he heard others echo the order down the line while continuing their charge. Just as he saw the soldiers bring their rifles to bear, he pressed on the small object that was under his left hand and attached to the area of the rein he was holding while shouting, “Now!”

In a near synchronous movement, something faintly golden but transparent bloomed from the center of the breastcollar that each of their horses wore. Concave and tall, it enveloped the entire height of the horse and its rider except for a small portion of the horse's legs near the hooves. Musket balls bounced off of the advanced shields that had been attached to the light cavalry, but there was no time for the British forces on the front lines to fall back as the Continental cavalry crashed straight into them.

Battering into the soldiers with ease, for the shields had been extracted from what Lady Washington's forces had brought with them, Ben continued to urge his horse forward into the lines, just as he saw a flash of a devilish black-armored rider sweep past him. Tallmadge and his men unleashed the hidden cavalry wave, and pushed further into the lines. Their metallic-blue blades flashed through the air, slicing mercilessly into the soldiers who had not had the fortune to be afforded a quick death by trampling.

“Forward! Keep going!” Ben shouted, his voice hoarse but still strong. Swinging his sword up and to the right, he struck a British soldier who had survived two waves and had been trying to discharge his rifle at point blank. The soldier flew back as the Continental line continued onward, passing by Tallmadge's line to push further in.

Smoke from the frightened discharge of flintlocks, cannon fire support of Knox, along with a merrily burning forest fire choked the air as the British lines started to collapse into sheer chaos. Adding to the chaos was the appearance of Washington, Arnold, and their forces from the east, who started to exchange fire with eastern portion of Cornwallis and Clinton's forces. The shouts and screams of men behind Ben and the others being cut down by the steady southward advance of Greene and Lee's forces filled the air. Still he and the others plowed on towards their objective. The exchange of staggered black clad cavalry arrows of the US Army after blue-white clad cavalry arrows of the Continentals colliding into redcoats eventually whittled down the British lines.

Ben coughed and choked in the smoke-filled air as the galloping gait of his horse slowed down to a canter, but within the grey and hazy air of the British back lines, he saw his counterpart's forces give one last push, trampling over the final lines towards their objective. Their exposure to the British artillery line was brief, but in the instance that they had ridden past the cannons, Ben saw at least sixteen 18-pounder cannons to six that the Continentals had, along with three 1860's Gatlings, and three more advanced Gatlings. Over half of those were in the midst of being brought to bear upon Washington and Arnold, but as the cavalry barreled through, he could hear the audible whine and shouts of men to bring two Gatlings upon them.

_Fzzt-thonk! Fzzt-thonk! Fzzt-thonk!_

Pieces of metal, scraps of wood, and parts of men and machine flew through the air with the utterly strange sound of Jefferson's Gauss cannons slicing into the British artillery lines before any could be waylaid into the cavalry. The heat of the explosions happening behind him was intense as Ben glanced back to see more parts and pieces of the Gatlings and cannons flying everywhere from the incredibly precise shots of the Gauss cannons at such a far range. It was all due to the built-in binoculars that Jefferson and his men had attached to their artillery – it was able to see past smoke. Those twenty-five weapons were wrecking more chaos on the back of the lines than anything else the Continental Army could throw at – and the British could not see exactly where the Gauss cannons were positioned due to all the thick smoke that surrounded them.

As the cavalry forces galloped into the woods behind British lines, he heard his counterpart shout, “Legions, on me!”

Continental and US Army cavalry split off in the middle of the woods, with Ben, Bradford, and their forces headed towards the east to support their forces, and Tallmadge and his forces headed to the west to support the allied future-army. Ben kept his horse in between a trot and canter, as he pulled along side Bradford. It was much too dangerous for any of the cavalry to attempt to even try to turn and ram into the back of the British lines, for the situation was not as clear cut as it had been yesterday. Instead, they would ride through the forest, with Ben and his cavalry rejoining the rest of the 2nd Continentals near Arnold's position, and Bradford taking his forces to rejoin Lee and Greene.

Squawks of birds taking flight in the forest were the loudest of noises besides the thundering of hooves on the muddy ground and the labored breathing of the horses. Ben eventually saw the familiar colors of Continentals through the weakly shining sunlight in the forest towards the northwest. Giving a silent nod towards Bradford, he slowed his pace just slightly, shouting, “2nd Light, on me!”

Peeling off towards the northwest, he and the rest of his men stormed through the woods, brambles and branches whipping into their faces as the shields in front of their horses broke pieces off. He could hear the familiar sounds of flintlocks being discharged, along with the shouts of men guiding their lines. As they got closer to the edge of the eastern forest, he could see the rest of the 2nd Continentals being steadily led forward with confidence under the command of Caleb.

South of their position and within a cluster of trees that curved into the eastern British lines was Robert Rogers and his forces. They were surprisingly causing quite a bit of chaos with their tactics that involved taking down a few British soldiers from each line, causing the lines to crowd up more and more as the redcoats glanced back to try to see what exactly was hitting them from the rear. Adding to the surge of the eastern forces trying to hold their ground but slowly failing was the fact that those from the center where the artillery were, were bunching up together again, making it easier for Knox's cannonades to hit them.

Upon clearing the forest and with the full force of the sounds of battle filling his ears again, he saw Caleb glance back for a moment, hearing the shouts of the back lines of the Continentals being alerted to the cavalry of the 2nd Continentals arriving. He thought he saw a grin quirk up on his friend's face before seeing him turn back and unsling a rather strange-looking weapon that had been attached to his side. It was not the advanced rifle that he saw Caleb fire, but rather what he remembered seeing in Sackett's barn during their initial introduction and tour of the place. The prototype grenade launcher shot its spherical cargo out in quite a spectacular fashion, and either it was pure luck or Caleb had really incredible aim, Ben saw the explosive land in the cluster of several lines that were being crowded from surge of east and west forces trying to back up.

A great cheer rose in the air as he and his men rejoined the rest of their ranks, as they saw the rear of the British ranks start to turn and march away. Thick smoke still lingered in the air, but a refreshingly cool breeze that brought about the start of a late afternoon allowed them to definitively see the backs of the redcoats from what was left of their front lines. Ben not only cheered in relief, but also in utter happiness. First Trenton and Princeton, next was Setauket, then Brandywine and Saratoga, and now Monmouth – Continental forces were now winning and slowly forcing British presence, no matter how much more well-armed and reinforced, out.

Lowering his sabre, he looked over towards where Washington was, and saw a satisfied look on his commander's face. There was no smile or cheer in his commander's eyes, at least nothing that he could tell at this distance, but neither did his commander turn to acknowledge what he and the cavalry forces had done. Instead, he saw with disappointment, Washington turning to extend a hand out in congratulations towards Arnold who was riding up. Following close behind the illustrious general was Hamilton, Laurens, and Lafayette – the three had wide smiles on their faces as they too were greeted warmly by Washington.

“Hey, cheer up Benny-boy! We just won!” he heard Caleb say as he glanced down to see his friend amble up, face and clothes covered in a thick layer of soot.

One of the 2nd Continentals had taken Caleb's horse over to him and Ben waited for his friend to climb up before shaking his head slightly. “Yeah,” he said, smiling slightly, “we did.”

“Ah, Washington still ain't giving a time and place for your presence?” Caleb said, gesturing with a nod of his chin towards their commander.

Ben followed his gesture to see that Washington was issuing some orders but stopped when someone shouted, “Rider across the field! White flag rider!”

Though it was the flag of neutrality, Ben tensed as he kicked the sides of his horse and made his way to the front of his men. Caleb followed closely behind him and a moment later, barreling out of the still lingering grey smoke and carrying a piece of white cloth tied to a stick came a horseman. The horseman was dressed in the mottled colors of the future-people's uniform, but Ben recognized him to be one of his counterpart's officers.

“News from Lieutenant General Washington!” Lieutenant Spiers shouted before bringing his robotic horse to a halt. “Britannian forces are also in retreat!”

A cheer just as loud, if not louder and more raucous than the one that had accompanied the retreat of British forces filled the air. In the midst of those cheering, Washington had also made his way forward and nudged his horse a few steps forward to close the distance. Ben could not hear the exchange between Spiers and Washington, but it was quite short. A few moments after the information had been exchanged, he saw the officer nod and dash off to return to his own commander.

He saw Washington gesture for the drummer boys to start their beating cadence, but it wasn't the taps of retreat that they played, but rather the taps of a victory march back to camp. They had won. Against all odds and then some, they had won.

* * *

_Somewhere on the coast of Connecticut..._

 

She gasped, greedily swallowing lungful after lungful of air as she felt someone push her up from the ice-cold salty water. Strong arms wrapped themselves around her as the heavy, water-logged fabric of her dress threatened to sink her again. She blinked, trying to rid herself of the stinging in her eyes as she was flipped over until she was lying across her back on something...no someone. Turning her head slightly as the golden rays of the sun setting across the body of water, she could only glimpse as to who was holding onto her, and by their movements across the water, most likely swimming to shore.

“T-thank you,” she said, her teeth chattering as she tried to force the words out. It was so cold, and she could barely feel her body. Her savior said nothing except to continue to swim. Instead to attempting to continue a conversation, the memories of the past days, weeks, months...? Christ, she did not remember much from her abduction and subsequent confinement within the windowless place, only remembering bits and pieces. She thus remained silent, trying to remember what had happened and how she had ended up in this cold body of water.

The swim to shore was not as long as she had anticipated, but not short either. As soon as either of them could touch their feet on the sandy sea floor and right themselves, she scrambled up and followed the man to shore. Wet, threadbare clothes covered the man, as seawater dripped off of them and off of his stringy dark-colored hair. As soon as they got to the beach, she tried to wring out as much water as she could from her dress, but she was much too tired and weak, and instead, sank down onto the seaweed-covered beach.

“Come on, Mrs. Strong. We need to go and get out of these wet clothes.”

She looked up, startled by the warmth that the man's voice carried, but was even more surprised as she found herself staring up at a rather strikingly handsome face that looked similar to Selah. But it wasn't Selah, for there were some differences, such as the fact that the man had eyes that were a few shades darker than Selah's eyes. That and there was a rather long scraggly beard covering half of his face.

“Do I know you?” she asked, trying to search through her memories. She wasn't aware that Selah had brothers and sisters, and something about the man's face was familiar in another sense.

She thought she saw a flash of sadness or disappointment cut across the man's eyes, but as quickly as it appeared, it disappeared, with him saying, “I don't believe we've been properly introduced, but under the circumstances, it is better if you didn't remember our initial introduction. I'm Andrew Strong. I'm your descendant.”

“Ah--” she began, but hesitant laughter overtook her senses as she instead, looked at him in disbelief. “P-pardon?” she managed to say after a moment.

“Come on, we can talk while moving,” he said, extending a hand out to help her up.

She took it and was lifted up, but Andrew did not let go of her hand and instead made sure that she had a good footing while traversing the sand and the transition into the forest. It was only after they were deeply within the thick forest did he let go and allow her to walk on her own. Still feeling weak but a lot warmer as they kept moving, she asked, “So it is true then? You're from the future?”

“Yes,” he answered, glancing over at her as they walked side by side, trudging through the thick bed of dried and brown leaves that covered the ground. “I can only presume that you know a little more of what is happening than I do and that you've heard of the entity called Britannia?” She nodded in affirmation. “I was captured and didn't know that I had been transported in time until you showed up. I wasn't sure who you were at first until I heard your name mentioned and remembered the legends that my parents told me long ago of you and your contribution to the first War for Independence.”

“First War for Independence,” she whispered, completely terrified and awed at the same time. But there was something more pressing weighing on her mind as she asked, “I was captured too? By whom? British forces?” She didn't remember any of it and only occasionally waking up to an empty cell. With that thought, a cold feeling formed and spread across her stomach – she had been compromised. Was Abe still alive?

“I could only assume so,” he answered, nodding slightly, “There was a man that I fuzzily remembered seeing at times whenever you were not being paraded in my cell, who wore the redcoat of a British officer. Dark haired with a thin blond braid--”

“Andre. Major John Andre,” she said, stopping and closing her eyes as she realized what must have happened. “It's my fault. It's all my fault. Abraham...”

“Hey, no,” Andrew said as she felt two warm hands being placed on the side of her arms. Opening her eyes, she found him standing before her, shaking his head. “Look, my memories of this are a little suspect too, but I think Deputy Director Simcoe broke us out.”

“Deputy Director... _Simcoe_?” she asked, horrified and incredulous at the same time. A feeling of disgust welled up inside of her, replacing the cold feeling in her gut. It was hard for her to imagine such a beast of a man taking a wife, much less producing descendants. She remembered hearing about the same man but only in passing when Setauket was in the midst of being wrestled for control by either British or Continental forces. The second time she heard the name was when Abraham had told her about their two descendants being trapped in some strange underground area. But to actually have it confirmed by her own descendant... “I thought Ben's descendant was lying,” she whispered. “I thought Abraham was also lying...”

“Ben? Ben Tallmadge?” Andrew questioned, letting his hands go from her arms. “You met Major Tallmadge of the 2nd Legionnaires?”

“Yes,” she said, puzzled. “I met both Major Tallmadge of the Continentals and his descendant during the siege of Setauket last spring. The Continentals won and it is why I was in New York.”

“Culper Ring,” she heard him murmur before asking, “Where's Samuel Culper Senior... where's Abraham Woodhull?”

“Still in New York,” she said, pushing the possibility that Abe was dead because of her ineptitude, away. He was resourceful and sharp. He would not be captured that easily.

“Well that wasn't supposed to happen...” he said before shaking his head slightly. “History is all sorts of messed up now, especially if you've seen and met both 721s. Not to mention the fact that Setauket is under the control of Continentals. Come on, we're going to continue to freeze to death if we don't get some dry clothes on. Considering where we were flushed out when the tunnels were flooded, I think we're somewhere on the coast of Connecticut. If we head towards the north east, we should eventually get to a village or town.”

“We should get back to New York, to rescue Abe, Townsend, and the others,” she said, running a few steps to catch up with her descendant's rather abruptly rapid pace. “Or at least to Setauket. Your Major Tallmadge is there and can help us.”

He shook his head, saying, “We can't. The only way I can repair the timeline and to set things right is to stop Director Andre's infernal machines. If things haven't changed drastically, Boston should still be free at the moment, and the only city I can safely get to without encountering too much trouble with British or dare I say it, Britannian forces around. Once we rest and warm up, we can hopefully get you a boat back to Setauket and I'll continue on my way.”

“Don't you dare send me back alone, Mr. Strong,” she said, stomping up so that she blocked his path. She was incensed and irritated that she was being treated like a delicate thing after all that she had been through. “You said that so-called stories about me have been passed down by your family for generations. Well _if_ you remember any of them, you should know a little about me then. My being in Setauket without your help does not help the cause. I left there specifically to help Abraham Woodhull in New York. Now I cannot return, and I understand that, but I will not sit idly by and let this war pass without doing whatever I can to help ensure that we win our freedom!”

“Well, the stories about that aspect of you are quite true then, Mrs. Strong--”

“Anna, please call me Anna,” she said, sensing that he had changed his mind and was not going to haul her off to the nearest docks as soon as they had regained their strength.

“Anna then,” he answered, smiling, holding out a hand to which she took it and they firmly shook. “Call me Andrew, please. Come on then, lets be off. I need a shave, and we're both going to suffer some shrinkage if we keep slogging through Connecticut, wearing these clothes. We'll figure out where we're headed once we sort this immediate mess out.”

* * *

_Monmouth_

 

Sweat, blood, tears, limb, and life; shed by both the men and women of the combined Continental-US Army was the cost of their victory at Monmouth over the course of the past few days. He was well aware that the victory had come because of the assistance of not only the future Benjamin Tallmadge and the battalion he commanded, but also of the unexpected and violent arrival of a person he had yet to comfortably accept and refer to as his descendant, and her army. There was no victory to be had, had messengers not gotten to those in Connecticut fast enough, and had the witchcraft-like cannon that fired green bolts not been present earlier in the morning.

Though it still somewhat surprised him that it was still the same day, albeit already dark, Washington did not let that affect him too much. Instead, he sent silent prayers of thanks up to the Lord for giving them this miracle of a victory. When he had a moment's rest he would properly say his prayers, but for now, he hoped the Lord would forgive his transgression for not taking the time to properly thank Him.

There was still one more battle to be had, and though he knew that his men were exhausted, to not press now would be to throw away the advantage they had. With the British in retreat, they were sure to be vulnerable to an all-out assault on New York, and he hoped to force the issue by moving closer to the city. While he was not keen to raze the city, he hoped that with their presence near the city, the British would see that they could not remain and peacefully withdraw.

It was a celebratory atmosphere within the camp, but within this planning tent, there were only grim faces and no one smiling. Looking up from the map that was spread out on the crates, Washington's eyes roamed across the faces of those within the tent. Arnold and Lee were to his left, while his counterpart and her Major-turned-General Tallmadge was standing attentively next to her. The other commanders were out and about, either shoring up light patrols or partaking in the celebrations.

He was keenly aware of the rumors that were floating around the camp concerning Lieutenant General Washington, with most of them being about the general's very unusual appearance and how frighteningly strange she looked. A few even whispered that she was the Devil incarnate, and whispered about heretical spells that she was putting upon all of them. Washington had discreetly informed General Greene, who seemed to be the most at ease with the appearances and interactions of the future-people, of the rumors. He hoped that Greene was currently trying to quash down some of the more unpleasant rumors – the men were already uneasy since Brandywine and he did not need a rebellion to flare up within the army.

He would have also informed Arnold, knowing that his friend was the staunchest supporter he had within the entire breath of Continental Army commanders, but he had seen just how Arnold reacted to the future-people while in Morristown. His friend still remained his greatest supporter, but he was aware that ill-repute rumors had been spreading around camp about Arnold. He could not let those rumors spread and thus did not count on his friend to be the one to quash the future-people rumors.

As for Lee, that was still something he had to deal with, and Monmouth had passed by them without the man ever betraying him. He wanted to formulate a plan to oust Lee without demoralizing the army, but with the invasion of New York at hand, he could not risk the lives of those few thousand civilians inside of the city just to take a general down in the political landscape. No, he needed to find a way to continue to keep Lee in line and in league and hope that if they won New York, he, Washington, still had enough political clout to keep his position as Commander of the Continental Army.

“This, gentlemen and lady, will be the last battle of the war,” he began, gesturing towards the map and the small rectangular pieces of red and blue laid out.

There was a cluster of red ships and rectangles surrounding the lower part of the city, with a rectangle of blue right across the Hudson at Paulus Hook. On the lower portion of Staten Island, there was a blue rectangle and at the edge of New Jersey's Woodbridge Township were three blue rectangles. North of the city, sitting near Middle Neck, were two blue rectangles. An engineer's square clustered with a nautical compass, was helping weigh down the center of the map, while partially filled goblets that had been brought in by the people around him helped hold down the edges of the map.

“You mean for them, or for us?” Lee spoke up, gesturing to where the cluster of red ships was. “Their ships will sail into the river and reinforce their whatever garrison they had left behind.”

“I should hope so,” he answered, pointing to the rectangles at Woodbridge and at Staten Island. “Our main force will cross into Staten Island, march up its eastern coast and with their fleet occupied in unloading men into the city and unable to fight, you will be free to cross into the narrows and into Brooklyn.”

“Yes, and that's what Howe did two years ago,” Lee pointed out, frowning.

“I will take a good idea, wherever it comes from,” Arnold immediately spoke up.

“He did it in August, not in early spring when the northern snow is still melting and raising the Hudson River higher than it usually is.”

“All the more reason they won't be expecting us,” Washington cut in before an argument could break out between the two men. He did not need his counterpart or his former Head of Intelligence's counterpart to see just how fractured they were, even in victory. “General Tallmadge here has proven the merit of sending men and equipment across rough water in two hours.”

“Two hours?” Lee questioned, giving the young general a disbelieving look. “How?”

“We converted some mechanisms from our horses to assist in speeding whaleboats across the Sound for our rendezvous at the mouth of the Saugatuck River. The only consequence was that the boats broke up soon after. It makes it a one-way trip across any body of water, sir,” he heard Tallmadge answer in a respectful tone.

It looked as if Lee wanted to continue to question the young general, but Washington knew that it was only a delaying tactic of sorts for the man to try to find some flaw to poke in the plan to further discredit him. He picked up and placed a blue rectangle west of Oyster Bay and said, “If we split the US Army forces into two and position them here and here--” he gestured to Oyster Bay and Middle Neck “--we will effectively box in Cornwallis and Clinton and force them to surrender.”

“Are you certain?”

“Completely,” he answered.

“Because you'll risk the entire army--”

“If you're not up to leading the men, Charles, then I will,” Arnold interrupted Lee's doubtful words.

“Gentlemen--” he warned, but was interrupted with the sounds of several people shouting in surprise, along with the clattering of hooves outside, and the clear braying of a donkey. Seconds later, the tent flap was opened rather forcefully as the messenger hurried in. Covered in from head to toe in soot, dirt, and what looked to be dark splotches of blood all over her soiled and torn dress was Culpeper Agent Natalie Sackett. Her hair was in a wild mess, as if she had put up a ferocious fight to get through enemy forces and practically pushed her robotic donkey to the limits just to get here. In her right hand was her advanced pistol, while the other held something cloth-like.

Her advance towards the crate-table was halted for all of a moment as Washington saw her eyes widen in pure shock at the appearance of Lieutenant General Washington. But that moment pass as she strode to the table and slapped down the cloth-like object that had been in her hand. Removing her hand, he saw that it was a dark-blue cap with a single brown feather stuck up and out of the middle of it.

“Sheridan's Rangers, sir,” she curtly stated. “At least 700 of them. They'll be at Philadelphia's doorsteps within the morning.”

Alarm coursed through him. He had been informed of the dangerous entity that sometimes sided with Britannia interests but mostly acted out of their own in this era and in the future-war by both Tallmadges, whom the latter, his former Head of Intelligence, had personally encountered during the transportation of Robert Rogers to Connecticut. He had heard unconfirmed Intelligence that the future-Tallmadge had engaged at least a few of those Rangers while attempting to retake Danbury and Ridgefield. He had thought of that Ranger group to be as small and relatively light as Rogers's group was.

How wrong he had now been.

There were only thirty men garrisoned within the city, and even if they moved now, it would take them at least two or three days, if not more to get to Philadelphia with all haste. The men and horses were exhausted – even _he_ was exhausted, as much as he ignored it. Where had 700 of those dangerous Rangers come from? He glanced over at his counterpart, but before he could voice that question, he felt a rather sharp pain bloom on his left side. Turning slightly to see what might have caused it, he saw nothing next to him – every person in the tent was still standing in front of him and around the map. Placing his left hand on his side near his lower back where the pain was most acute, he thought he felt something sticky and wet soak his jacket. Pulling his hand away, he looked at it in horrifying surprise.

There was a lot of blood covering his hand.

Dizziness surged through him at once as he suddenly felt his body become quite inordinately heavy, making it hard for him to keep standing. The last thing he heard was an unfamiliar rasp of a young woman saying, “The Director and Major Andre give their complements on your attempt to win in a war fought well.”

 

~*~*~*~

 


	16. Gunpowder, Laser Rifles, Treason, and Plot (What Plot?) [Pt. 3]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you imagine everyone as hedgehogs, this chapter gets insanely adorable and hilarious (according to my beta-reader).

**Chapter 16: Gunpowder, Laser Rifles, Treason, and Plot (What Plot?) [Pt. 3]**

 

“ _The Director and Major Andre give their complements on your attempt to win in a war fought well.”_

At that moment in time, it was as if the universe had held its breath in shock before exhaling and allowing the events to continue to unfold. And in the next moment, something within the confines of the tent fizzled and sparked, revealing a disheveled young woman covered in innumerable bruises that should have kept her from moving, but didn't. She was standing behind General George Washington, poised to run away, but in her hand was a dagger of sorts – squared at the end where the blade met the hilt. The blade itself was thin, conical-like square pyramid in shape with deeply sharp divots every half-inch that tapered to a sharp point six inches away from the hilt.

With the invisibility module she had been wearing expiring and her means of escaping without anyone knowing the wiser gone, the young woman snatched the nearest object, a candle holder, and flung it at the face of her fellow Culpeper Ring agent, Natalie Sackett. Following the trajectory of the candle holder, she leapt forward, springing off of the maps covering the crates and crashed into Sackett, plowing herself and the agent into the ground.

As the two women briefly grappled, Arnold was already in the midst of reaching out and caught his commander in his arms before Washington could hit the ground. He was already trying to apply pressure to the wound while shouting for the surgeon, even though he himself could not keep his own balance and sunk to the ground with his commander and friend cradled in his arms. Grief and desperation were laced across his expression and his shouts as he stared at Washington.

On the other side of the crate table, though not wounded at all, Lieutenant General Georgia Washington was also in the midst of collapsing, but only because her own existence was being threatened as her namesake ancestor laid dying. Tallmadge had reacted in the same manner as Arnold had – catching her in his own arms while he himself crashed to the ground on his knees. Utter horror and despair clutched at him – he could not lose his beloved commander again, not after reuniting only this morning, and yet he could not believe that the most reluctant participant of the Culpeper Ring agents had betrayed them.

Lee had already pulled his pistol half-way out of its holster, but was not fast enough to stop the assassin as she viciously spun out of Sackett's grasp and kicked the general back. Tearing away, she dashed out of the tent, with the shouts of Lee calling for the men to bear arms and to stop her following her wake. Never had he imagined that those he secretly allied with would attempt something so openly vile and dishonorable.

~~~

“You know, the way they talked about their Lieutenant General Washington, I would have expected someone as tall as old Georgie here.”

Ben shook his head slightly as both he and Caleb halted their horses. There was quite a lively celebration going on within the camp for their victory over the British-Britannian forces, but even with the victory, patrols were still to be had. He, Ben, had been turned away at the entrance to Washington's tent earlier in the night, with Washington's manservant stating that the general was not receiving him. Even after all that had happened, his commander still refused to allow him to acknowledge his mistakes or at least attempt an apology of sorts, and it had soured his cheerful mood considerably. Thus, he had volunteered to go out on patrol while others around him celebrated.

He had not meant to inadvertently drag Caleb out of his own celebrations with the mixed group of 2nd Legionnaires and 2nd Continentals, but there had been no deterring his best friend from accompanying him. Now, with the initial patrol done and another small group out for a few hours, as much as Ben wanted to continue to stay out in the woods and surrounding fields, wallowing in his own misery, he was hungry, and there was fresh food at the camp. Hard tack and salted meats were not in his packs, since he had left those back at the camp before the battle earlier today and in his frustration and anger, had forgotten to place those in his pack before going on patrol.

“Caleb,” he said as he saw his friend easily hop off the robotic horse, patting the fake beast on its neck as if it were a real horse. “You know as well as I do that appearances can be deceiving--”

“Stop her!” a clamor of voices suddenly shouted as the sound of pounding hoof beats in a full gallop and a horse's whinny tore through the air. “To arms men! Stop her! Shoot her!”

The shout was not even completed when a hail of blue bolts scattered across the sky not several campfires down from where he and Caleb were before there was a rather bright flash of light along with a familiar searingly audible whine that caused him to momentarily clench his teeth. Not a couple of seconds later, he thought he saw something tiny and spherical sail through their air, glinting with the firelight. Just as the unknown rider galloped by, the same whine and light flashed again but he managed to look away in time to not be temporarily blinded.

The dying whine of rifles and of Caleb's horse collapsing back into a cube without warning told him exactly what it was as those around him were momentarily confused with the disabling of their weapons. It didn't help that most of the soldiers were also quite drunk with revelry – enough that they could not respond fast enough to the call for arms. However, being quite sober and freshly alert from the end of his patrol, Ben had already turned his horse around and kicked its sides. Leaping forward, as the unknown rider charged through camp, continuing to release what he could only presume to be actual EMP grenades that his counterpart had described, Ben pulled out his pistol and drew back the flintlock as he fell into the rhythmic pace of his horse's gallop.

At this range, he knew that he would not have a clear or clean shot, and with only glimpses of where the rider was from the campfires that dotted the path, he would only have one chance to shoot and hopefully hit her. He briefly closed his eyes and clenched his teeth again as yet another EMP grenade was released, and when he opened his eyes, he caught the rider looking back for a moment. They were nearing the edge of camp, and whatever light he could draw from the whittling campfires was going to die – he needed to act now.

Bringing up his pistol, he slowly breathed in, holding his breath for that one moment in time as he felt all four of his horse's legs leave the ground in the middle of the stride. He fired – and not even before he let his breath go, his musket ball struck his target true. The rider jerked forward, just as he did too with the crashing of the hooves of his horse back onto the ground, jarring him slightly as he lowered his arm and found his balance again. He saw the rider's horse start to slow to a trot and eventually halt, sensing that its passenger was unresponsive and had slumped into an awkward position on its saddle.

He too slowed his own horse down as sent a quick prayer of thanks up to the Lord and to his father for the skills that had been imparted on him. He was aware that Caleb had thought it had been an impossible shot to make at the distance he had been from Rogers's native ranger last year during Rogers's attempt to trap him. But it had not been, for what he had done today was the same as last year, having been taught and drilled into him by his father since he had been able to ride. A controlled breathing pattern, along with a steady aim, and a good sense of how the horse behaved while moving was what his father had said was needed in order to properly shoot anything off of horseback. His father had been a hunter well before he had turned to ministry.

Halting his horse just a few yards from the slumped rider, he quickly and methodically reloaded his pistol, not wanting to risk being potentially ambushed by the rider, had his shot not been true. However, before he could approach, he heard hoof beats behind him and turned slightly to see another rider, this time wearing a dress of all things, approach. Upon closer inspection as the rider slowed and stopped, he realized that it was Natalie, but his shock at her unexpected and wild appearance was short-lived as he realized that she was bleeding from freshly cut wounds.

“Ben,” she said with out preamble and before he could get a word out, “listen to me. An assassination attempt has been made on General Washington's life. He is gravelly wounded--”

Oddly, her words were suddenly drowned out by a ringing noise in his ears as his thoughts blanked out for a moment before suddenly returning with a rush that sent a thrill of anger, panic, and fear running through him. Assassination attempt... Washington wounded... his commander... assassination... gravelly--

A hot, stinging pain blossomed across his left cheek sending his grief-and-panic-stricken thoughts into the back as the rational side of his mind rushed forward to fill the void. The ringing in his ears stopped, as he blinked and returned to his senses, with the after effects of someone slapping his face still hurting. “Ben! Listen!” Natalie forcefully said, as his eyes riveted to her. “We don't have much time. You need to take custody, take control--”

“Get away from Major Tallmadge and the assassin, woman!”

Ben's eyes immediately snapped to the approaching horsemen, narrowing slightly as he saw that it was Bradford who had spoken in such a disrespectful manner towards Natalie. However, he held his tongue as he saw General Greene, along with three other horsemen behind Bradford.

“Manners. That is no way to talk to a young lady, no matter the circumstances, Colonel Bradford,” Greene immediately admonished as the entourage halted and surrounded both him, Natalie, and the horse and rider that he, Ben, had shot.

The hostile look in Bradford's eyes did not die, but he did hear him stiffly say, “My apologies, miss.” If looks could kill, Ben was sure that Bradford would have been dead and burnt alive by the glare that Natalie sent him. However, she remained silent, giving Ben no clarification as to her words before she had been interrupted.

“Sirs! The assassin is still alive!” one of the soldiers who had approached the rider said, lifting the rider up slightly from her slumped position.

“Alive but out, sirs,” another said, as Ben holstered his pistol and glanced back to see them adjusting the rider on her horse. “Wounded in the shoulder and bleeding, sirs.”

“Take the prisoner to an isolated area, Bradford,” Greene began, but was interrupted by the whinnying of more horses and the arrival of Lee and a few other soldiers.

“She's 722!” Natalie hissed to Ben just as Lee and the others stopped. He saw Bradford and the other two soldiers near the rider adjust the rider so that she was slumped over the saddle like a sack of potatoes.

“Take Miss Sackett and this _filth_ of an assassin away,” Lee dismissively said after taking a quick glance around.

“What--”

“I'm sure that the removal of Agent Sackett is not necessary, Charles,” Greene spoke up before Natalie's protests could be fully voiced. “After all, she still has to present a complete briefing of the situation at Philadelphia.”

Ben frowned, utterly confused at just what had happened in the few minutes that spanned from the time he and Caleb had returned to camp and all the way through his chase down of whom he could only assume had been the one to assassinate – attempted to assassinate – his commander. His numbed shock was slowly wearing off, but what was this about Philadelphia? Did Natalie's sudden appearance have something to do with the city? How had an assassin snuck into camp and managed to wound Washington without the guardsmen knowing? What was this about the rider being 722... Abe's numerical designation from the codebook – and he realized with a cold feeling forming in his stomach that the rider he had shot was Abe's descendant.

Though it was quite dark, Ben could see a sour expression appear on Lee's face before the general conceded, saying, “You're quite right, Nathanael.”

“But, sir, she struck an officer!” Bradford said, gesturing to him, Ben.

Furious at the accusation that the man was leveling upon Natalie, he protested, saying, “If only to help me regain my senses! Sir!” In his anger, he nearly forgot to tack on the honorific.

“What Major Tallmadge says is true,” Greene intervened before Bradford could continue his baseless accusations, even though Ben knew that in any other circumstances, any civilian, enlisted, or lower-ranking officer striking a superior officer or officer in general had severe consequences. Most of the time, the punishment was death. Perhaps the consequences and circumstances of such a happenstance was different in Natalie's era, but they were here and now in the 18th century. He was not about to let the woman he loved, die for helping him regain his senses.

He thought he saw Lee thin his lips for a second, but with what little firelight shone around them, it was hard to tell. However, he did see Lee nod slightly again towards Greene's words of wisdom before saying, “As for this assassin--”

“Sir,” he immediately said, knowing that it was quite rude of him to cut a general, even one such as Lee, off mid-sentence. “If I may take the prisoner into custody myself. She has information that we need--”

“Information?!” Lee scoffed as Ben ignored the incredulous look that Bradford had thrown him. “I'm sorry, Major, but perhaps you didn't hear correctly – that _woman_ attempted to assassinate our illustrious General Washington, and _you_ want information from her?!”

Ben was at a momentary loss of words, but without knowing what the other generals, much less officers that were not a part of the Culper Spy Ring were going to do to Abe's descendant, he couldn't let them take her away to never be seen again. It was then that he realized just how much of a divide there was between those who accepted the help and assistance of the future-people and who didn't. The woman he had shot had exacerbated those tensions to a point that was boiling over. He could not let those who did not like the presence of the future-people take her away – could not let them further their detrimental agenda against Washington.

She was Culpeper, and she was indirectly a part of the Culper Ring – even if she had committed a heinous crime. And the last he remembered hearing of her location from Natalie and the others – she had been captured in New York City in her time. Abe was still in New York, and if she had been transported through time, then perhaps she had contact with Abe and therefore, information about the city that was sorely needed.

“Sir,” he forcefully said, moving his horse forward so that he was closer to Lee, “As Head of Intelligence--”

“Former Head--” Lee snapped.

“This woman has vital information--” he plowed on, ignoring Lee.

“You will stand down Major--”

“Concerning New York City--”

“Stand down, Major Tallmadge, or you _will_ be court-martialed for insubordination!” Lee threatened, and Ben snapped his mouth shut. “Take the prisoner to an isolated area, William,” Lee said after a moment, gesturing to Bradford to do his duty.

“Unharmed and undisturbed,” Greene added before Bradford and two other horsemen could leave.

“Yes, sirs,” Bradford acknowledged and left with the horse bearing the woman and two others accompanying him. Ben could only watch with despair mixing in with anger at himself and at what had happened swirling inside of him.

“Tallmadge,” Greene spoke up, drawing his attention away from Bradford and the others. “Go fetch a report from the surgeon on the condition of General Washington. Charles, Agent Sackett, and I along with the other commanders have much to discuss on the urgent matter concerning Philadelphia and you will find us on the west side of the camp.”

“Sir,” he began, feeling apprehensive yet relieved at the same time, “I will do so and thank you, sir.”

Giving a nod towards both Greene and reluctantly also to Lee, he dared not look back towards Natalie as he set his horse in a quick pace back towards the heart of the camp. It would be much later that he would realize just how much General Greene had sacrificed to ensure that shots were not fired between Continentals or the US Army in the next twelve hours. Tensions were already high even before the British launched their offensive against Trenton and Princeton, but with the wild rumors that Washington had been or nearly been killed by a person from the future, that tension almost exploded into a civil war within the Continental-US Army camp.

For now, Ben was aware of the rumors and whispers that were being said by the soldiers as he hurried back towards Washington's tent. Cheerful and raucous jigs, shanties, and drinking games had stopped as smiles turned into concerns, frowns, and even open anger. Continental soldiers were warily eyeing their future-comrades, while the future-people were nervously holding onto their useless weapons that had been temporarily disabled with the EMP grenades.

“Jesus, Ben,” Caleb said, stepping out into his path as soon as he got close to where he had left his friend. Washington's tent was a some distance away, but he couldn't see anyone go in or out – in fact, there were no guards at the entrance. He could see a few dead bodies lying prone on the ground near the tent, two of them Washington's guardsmen. No one was approaching to remove or tend to the bodies.

“What the hell happened?!” Caleb continued, “They're saying that someone assassinated or tried to assassinate General Washington! Where's the murdering bastard?”

Halting his horse, he swung himself off, but shook his head and pushed his friend away, saying, “Not now, Caleb. Where is he? Where is Washington? Did they take him from the tent?”

“No, no,” Caleb said, as Ben started forward. “As far as anyone knows, he's still there, but what's left of Lady Washington's bodyguards are preventing anyone else not the surgeons or those already there from going in. I don't know what's happening.”

Ben made it only a few yards from the tent when a dark figure stepped out from the shadows of the campfires that dotted the area, stopping him. Caleb had also halted at his side, but even with the dim light, Ben recognized the man who had stopped him – the Russian agent whom his counterpart had warned about. “Let me pass,” he said, nearly growling the words, for he did not have the time or patience to deal with whatever personal issues went on between his counterpart and this man.

“No one is allowed through, Major,” the man stated.

“General Greene has ordered me to bring news to him and the other commanders at General Lee's tent concerning the condition of General Washington,” he said, taking a step forward only to be forcefully pushed back by the agent's hand. Glaring at the man, he said, “Let. Me. Pass.”

“No one is allowed through,” the agent repeated in an unyielding tone.

“Christ on a pony!” Caleb exclaimed, pushing his way up and forcing the agent to put out his other hand to stop him. “It's because of you nobs who were _supposed_ to _protect_ Washington and instead, let him get injured! Ain'tcha late for trying to protect him now?! Let us pass!”

“Caleb!” Ben hissed, for that was not what needed to be said out loud or heard by others in the camp. Not when accusations and tensions between the two factions were running quite high.

“Tallmadge!” he heard Laurens shout as Ben saw the officer step out of the tent and spot him. Hurrying over, the officer continued to ask, “Did you recover a stiletto from the assassin?”

Though the pressure on his chest from the agent's hand upon it did not ease, Ben focused his attention on the aide, shaking his head. “No. Bradford's taken her somewhere isolated and away from the men here. I can go back to the area where I shot her and look around.”

“Hurry, Tallmadge,” Laurens said. “The wound dealt to the commander is not closing or stopping, and we need the blade to cauterize it. I'll look for Bradford.”

Ben merely nodded as he turned and hurried away, the icy pit in his stomach further solidifying into horror and fear. “Caleb, look around here and up and down where the assassin dropped those EMP things,” he said, glancing over towards his friend.

“Yeah,” Caleb acknowledged just as they returned to where his horse was.

Snatching a piece of half-burnt firewood from the nearest campfire and ignoring the painful heat that seared across his hand, he quickly climbed on the horse. Galloping off, he was soon back at the place where the assassin had been shot and hopped off. Sweeping the improvised torch around, he scoured the ground for anything that reflected the firelight.

The urgency of the matter was so great in his mind that it took him several sweeps and walking back and forth in the area to finally see a glint of metal on the ground. He had walked over that area at least five times before finally noticing it. Crouching and grabbing the metallic item, he lifted it out of the ground and quickly brushed the thin blade against his uniform. From the make and weight of the hilt, it certainly looked liked a stiletto, but he wasn't sure that if it was the dagger that had been plunged into his commander.

Still, there was no time to waste and as he swung himself back onto his horse, roughly kicking its sides and hurrying back to the heart of the camp, he hoped that he was not too late. “I found something!” he said, tugging on his horse's rein to halt the beast as he leapt off, dropping the improvised torch back into the campfire, seeing Caleb look up from where he was.

“I did too,” his friend answered, causing Ben to halt for a moment in his steps.

“What?!” he said as he saw his friend hold up a similar-looking stiletto blade, with conical tapering from hilt to tip instead of the square to conical tapering that he had found. He realized that the assassin must have dropped several blades of different make and sizes during her escape to try to confuse them. If there was any hope for the surgeon to successfully cauterize the wound, they needed the exact blade that the wound had been dealt with.

“Tallmadge, did you find anything?” Laurens called out again as he saw the officer hurrying towards them. The area where the man had come from was a little too close for Ben's comfort to Lee's tent – much too close to where the other generals were.

“Two blades, sir,” he said, closing the distance as he took Caleb's found blade out of his hand. Holding it out for Laurens to see, he said, “She must have left them as decoys or diversions.”

“That may be so,” Laurens agreed, also holding out two more blades, both made similar to the two that he held, except with sharp divots running up and down the blades. “These two were on her. She was in no state to explain which one was used or either if not used.”

“Please take them to the surgeon, sir,” he said, as a wash of anger swept through him, breaking through the numbing dam that he thought had settled in his foggy mind. Placing the two daggers into the officer's hand, he stalked off, saying, “I'll find out which one she used.”

“Ben!” He felt Caleb tug his arm back, trying to halt his advance, but roughly shook it off. “Jesus Christ, Ben! Stop!”

“Don't Caleb,” he angrily said, continuing forward. “Don't you dare!”

“Christ on a pony, Ben!” Caleb said, trying to step in front of him and attempted to grab him again. This time, Ben ducked away and stepped to the side, causing Caleb to stumble, and he did not look back to see if he was all right. Instead, he continued onward, but did not hear any other footsteps try to catch up to him or stop him again.

The tent in which they kept the assassin prisoner in was quite inconspicuous, but even as quiet as they could make it, the two soldiers of Bradford's unit sitting outside of it gave it away. That and the mounds of paraphernalia that had been dumped outside to the side. And it was most definitely a little too close for comfort to Lee's tent.

Inside though, was a single candle that lit the rather austere and spacious canvas tent with the young woman sitting on the ground, wrapped tightly against the main support pole of the tent. Irons were snapped around her wrists and ankles, and two of the three guards that were within the tent had their rifles pointed at her. The third guard was sitting a ways away next to a small table that contained whatever items that had been found upon her. Bradford was no where in sight.

“Where is Colonel Bradford?” he asked, looking at the guards.

“At the briefing with General Lee and the others,” one of the guardsmen said.

“Has she said anything?”

“No, sir,” the same guardsman answered. “Colonel Laurens was just here, looking for the weapons that she carried upon her.”

“I know,” he said, approaching and crouching before the young woman. There was a very odd and eerie-looking beatific smile upon her face – as if she did not care for her existence in this world and was only breathing and living because that was what God intended for her to do.

“Abigail Woodhull,” he softly stated, trying to keep his anger in check and to _not_ do anything rash, for despite Caleb's attempts to stop him, he did hear the worry within his friend's tone. He had not meant to hurt his friend the way he did, but there had been no helping his temper at that moment – it was as if an uncontrollable rage had consumed his very being.

There was no reaction from the woman, and he thought that perhaps he had gotten her name wrong, had heard Natalie wrong about the identity of this woman. “722,” he whispered. “Agent 722, can you hear me?”

A giggle. As eerie of a sound as it was, especially considering what had happened, as he saw her briefly blink and continue to stare far and away with the smile still upon her face. “If you can hear me,” he said, drawing upon what little patience he had left. “What blade did you use to...” he hesitated for a moment before swallowing the lump in his throat and plunged on. “What blade was used to assassinate Washington, 722?”

“722 is not here right now, good sir,” the childish, creepily gleeful voice of the young woman answered as her eyes continued to look beyond Ben. “Please, good sir, please leave your messages with the maiden fair after the beep.” Before he could do or say anything, there was a rather agonizing cry of pain before he saw her eyes rivet to him as her expression seized up in utter fear. “No, no!” she cried, causing him to take a step back from his crouch. “I didn't do it! I didn't! It was her! She made me do it! She made me do it with the square divot blade! Take it! Go, before she stops you!”

The forcefulness of her words, along with the shoving of rifle barrels into her face caused him to stumble back as she suddenly fell silent and stared up at all of them with the same beatific smile that she had upon her face when he first entered. Getting up, he glanced over towards the guardsman nearest to the table, who was looking quite spooked. “Gag her,” he ordered.

“Yes, sir,” the man said, looking quite grateful.

He took one last look at the Culpeper agent known as Abigail Woodhull, feeling pity mixing in with horror wash through him, nearly dissipating the anger that he had towards her. She had, no she _was_ broken. He didn't know where she had come from or how she got here, but all he could infer was the fact that she had been captured by the enemy and she had been completely broken while in captivity. Was this the fate that awaited those of the Culper Ring – of Abe, Anna, and those within New York City? He shuddered to think so.

He was not hindered like the first time he had approached Washington's tent, as he dashed back to pass the news. However, he stopped short of fully entering the tent proper as soon as he saw the scene before him. It was very noisy, with the most prominent of voices in the din being carried by Arnold. He saw his commander lying prone on a cot, surrounded by the surgeon and the surgeon's mate. Blood pooled on the floor of the cot, at a greater quantity than he thought possible. Arnold was at the head of the cot, helping the surgeon and his mate hold Washington down, while Lafayette and Hamilton were at the end. Laurens was busy cleaning all four blades in a bowl of water that looked too red to just be water mixed with a little blood.

On the other side of the tent was something extraordinary that he wasn't even sure if it was real – Lady Washington was also on a cot, but she was convulsing and occasionally fading in and out... as if she were becoming a ghostly apparition of sorts. But she wasn't, even when he thought he could see straight through her and into the cot, for two of the future-people who had cloths of white splashed with a red cross wrapped around their arms were tending to her. He saw his counterpart at their side with Brewster opposite of him, trying to help them hold her down, while Jefferson was at Lady Washington's head.

“Square with divots,” he shouted, catching the attention of most of those present, but especially Laurens, who gave him a curt nod and plucked out the six-inch blade that had a square end at the hilt tapering to a conical point with divots every half-inch.

“You, get more fresh hot water,” the surgeon said, slapping Laurens on the arm before pointing to Ben, saying, “and you boy, heat the blade until its glowing.”

As Laurens passed him, he was handed the blade and a thick piece of cloth, and followed the officer back out. Heading towards the nearest campfire, he plunged the blade into the embers. Though it only took a few minutes for the blade to begin to heat up and glow, those few minutes felt like eternity to him. He was not a blacksmith, but he knew that there was a point in which the solidity of the blade would be compromised, and thus, when the blade became slightly unbearable for him to hold even with a cloth wrapped around the hilt, he took it out of the fire and ran back into the tent.

Laurens was right on his coattails, having returned with a fresh bowl of hot water. The surgeon gestured for both of them to step up, saying, “As soon as I let go, splash the water on the wound, and then plunge the blade in.”

“But, sir, what about the angle?” he asked, stopping just shy of standing next to his ailing commander who was still thrashing and looking quite delirious with pain.

“He's right,” Arnold spoke up, seemingly grinding his words out as he tried to put as much of his weight on Washington as possible without further injuring him. “We don't know where or how the blade was stabbed into him. Divots on a blade are going to tear through more than just a simple dagger--”

Arnold's words were never finished as Hamilton suddenly ran out of the tent. His absence was quickly rectified when he returned, entering the tent again, this time not alone for he had brought Natalie with him. “Hold him down,” she curtly ordered, plucking the heated blade from Ben's hands.

The surgeons nearly protested, but it was surprisingly, it was Hamilton who leveled a rather imposing and dark glare upon them. “I said, hold him down,” she ordered again, and Ben realized that that also pertained to him. He went over to the other side, standing next to Washington's right shoulder as he placed both hands on his commander's arm. The surgeon's mate stood opposite of him, while Hamilton took up his position near their commander's right leg. Lafayette was still on the left side, but had shifted down to give Laurens and Natalie some room; with Laurens behind the surgeon, holding the bowl of water at the ready, and Natalie close behind.

He glanced up for a quick moment and saw the pinched, haunted look upon Arnold's face as the general braced their commander at the head, with both hands on Washington's shoulders. At the command of “Lift!” all of them pressed down as hard as they could. Ben saw blood bubbling out of the wound on his commander's side, with the water that Laurens splashed on it doing little to stop it except to momentarily clean the site. But that moment was all that was needed as Ben saw Natalie plunge the glowing blade back into the wound.

Washington convulsed with more strength than thought possible, nearly throwing several of them off balance as the smell of burnt flesh filled the air. The sound that escaped their commander's lips was agonizing, and it rattled him, until it suddenly stopped. At that same time, Washington's body became slack, and Ben nearly panicked in fright.

“He's alive!” the surgeon quickly said, holding a small mirror up to Washington's nose, as he saw it fog up just slightly enough to show that indeed, his commander was breathing. He looked up in time to see Natalie stepping back, grimacing as she dropped the blade into the empty bowl. His eyes were drawn back to the wound, which was blackened and still curling up with small tendrils of smoke.

“How long until we know that it worked?” Arnold asked.

“We won't know until maybe in a day or two,” the surgeon answered.

“Um, pardon, but I think we do have our answer,” Laurens said, pointing to across the tent.

Ben turned from where he was half-crouched and saw that his commander's counterpart was no longer eerily fading in and out and was instead, looking quite solid. There was a much more calmer air around those on that side, and he could see the exhaustion and relief etched upon their faces. He caught his counterpart's grateful glance over towards them, and knew then, that both of their commanders would live.

* * *

_Some dingy tavern in Norwalk, Connecticut..._

 

“Augh, this ale is awful,” Anna quietly said into her mug as she took another sip of it. Even with the mug not quite covering the entirety of her face, she could not help but wrinkle her nose in distaste as she swallowed the terrible-tasting liquid. Still, her thirst was the greater need than taste, and thus she drank.

She was still cold, but it was only because the petticoat that she wore underneath her 'borrowed' dress was not long enough to cover her ankles. Of the stockings and boots that were on her feet, those were slightly ill-fitting, but she couldn't complain about it – at least the dress fit. As for her companion sitting across the table from her, the shirt, along with the vest that he had also 'borrowed' from a hapless clothesline was a little too wide. His trousers were also a little loose, but at least the stockings and boots fit him. They had not been able to find a proper jacket for him, but it really didn't matter at the moment – neither of them were wearing sea water-soaked clothes anymore.

“After being stuck down in that hell hole for spirits knows how long, I'd even take near-frozen gnat's urine over whatever shit they were giving me to keep me alive,” she heard him casually mutter into his own mug.

“Near frozen-what?” she asked, setting her mug down. “And spirits? Do you not believe in the Lord?”

In the short time it had taken them to get from the coast of the Sound to this town called Norwalk, she had heard so many wondrous things about the future and what it held that she had to pinch herself several times to ensure that it was not a dream. But with that tale also came the realization of what kind of war that had engulfed them. Last year's display with Ben's soldiers and whatever other future-people had appeared in Setauket was only a small piece of the puzzle. Ben had kept so much from both her and Abe, and with their isolation in New York City, they had not been exposed to such madness. Now though, outside of the city, it was still quiet, but from what her descendant had described the happenings in his time, she found it quite frightening to hear rumors of men with strange-looking rifles torching Ridgefield and Danbury. She prayed with all of her might that God would keep Abe safe in the city and that he was not dead.

“Ah, just an expression in my day and age,” Andrew said, waving his hand slightly, though Anna could tell that her questions had made him slightly uncomfortable. “Also, best not keep drinking, Anna. You'll need your wits about you. There's been a few people of unsavory natures looking our way for the past fifteen minutes. I want to stay and warm up some more, but we might need to leave and find another place to stay soon.”

“Oh?” she said, taking a quick look around and noticing the hunched-over patrons of this dingy little place nursing their drinks. She could see no such overt intent on any of those around them, but she had been working in her husband's tavern long enough to spot tell-tale signs of trouble. “They're all drunk as pigs to the trowel, Mr. Strong. It looks like those patrons at the corner there have some unfinished business with those at the center of the tavern. Patrons wearing those moth-eaten stockings and trousers there seem to be content on nursing their drinks so long as the barman doesn't kick them out until closing time. I think _I'm_ safe for the time being if you are so inclined to start a fight.”

“Why Mrs. Strong,” Andrew teased, smiling as he took another sip of his ale, “I'm surprised that you're suggesting something so violent. Have you worked in a tavern before?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” she confirmed, watching his teasing smile drop slightly as he realized that she was being serious. “Selah owns...well, owned a tavern--”

The door swung open in a violent crash against the wall as several patrons instantly stood up, drawing knives, pistols, and whatever weapon-like implements they could get their hands on. Anna had risen as well more in surprise than in curiosity, with Andrew taking a protective step forward, pushing her partially behind him. Not a moment later, someone stumbled in, completely soaked through. The man tripped on the floorboards, swinging his stringy wet hair this way and that, but they all got a good look at the person's face – and she felt her breath hitch for a moment.

_Selah!_

Pushing Andrew away, she hurried towards her husband, and slid to the floor, catching his head in her arms just before he hit the ground. “Selah!” she cried, as she saw her husband's eyes roll around, delirious and unfocused. She could see no open wounds or blood on him, but he was not snapping out of his fugue. “Selah, answer me! Please!”

“Miss!” the tavern owner said in her ears as several other patrons crowded around her, trying to pull her away from her husband.

She held on tight, not wanting to let her husband go, for though she had gone to New York to serve the cause, she was well aware that her actions had put a strain upon their relationship. She had hoped that once the war was over, perhaps he would find it within his heart to forgive her, for she had not wanted to intentionally hurt him. She thought he would be safe wherever Ben was, but it seemed not so at this moment, and it frightened her to see the man she knew who was so courageously strong, befallen like this. That fear was further exacerbated with her husband's slurred words to her that sent chills through her bones.

“They've taken it, they're taken Setauket. The British have taken Setauket.”

* * *

_Continental battlefield camp, Monmouth, New Jersey..._

 

Morning found the massive camp already in the midst of preparing to move southwards towards Philadelphia. It also found the camp clearly and cleanly divided between the Continentals and the US Army, though Samantha's sudden and unexpected arrival from Morristown caused tensions to heighten even further. Though no shots had been fired, General Lee had made it extremely clear that help was not needed from the US Army in the retaking of Philadelphia. There had been some protests, but not as much as Caleb thought there would be, and surprisingly, it had been Ben's counterpart who had silenced a lot of his compatriots' protests at just how mad General Lee was to not accept US Army help. There seemed to be an impasse of sorts between the two factions, with each blaming the other for what had happened to both General Washingtons and neither wanted to work with each other, for the tentative trust that had been there had been completely shattered.

In the chaos of breaking camp, Caleb finally found Ben sitting around a campfire that had been burnt into embers. His friend was hunched over, with his head buried within his arms that were wrapped around his drawn up knees, and he could only imagine that Ben probably had a headache from the bottle he had swiped off of him late last night while muttering an apology to him. He stopped before the campfire, letting go of both his horse and Ben's horse's reins as he crouched down before his friend.

“Ben,” he said, tentatively reaching out a hand and patting him on the shoulder. “It's time to go. The 2nd Light is ready to leave.”

There was no response for a few moments until he heard his friend hoarsely ask, “How is he, Caleb? How is Washington?”

“Still the same,” he answered truthfully. “Still the same as he was yesterday, Ben. The surgeons have allowed the medics to run what the medics term an 'intravenous line' of sorts from Lady Washington to the general himself so that the lady can give some of her blood to him.”

“I failed him, Caleb,” he thought he heard Ben say, but wasn't sure. His answer was given a moment later when his friend lifted his head up and repeated, “I failed him.” Caleb was taken aback slightly at just how red-rimmed Ben's eyes were – those were not red-rimmed eyes of a drunkard; it looked like he had been _crying_. “We knew about the threat, of what might happen, but I _failed_ him, Caleb. I couldn't find out who, or when, or how--”

“None of us could, Ben,” he interrupted him, his own heart aching at just how pitiful and unsure Ben looked at this very moment. Sure Caleb was aware that he himself was the more boisterous and confident one, but that was because he knew that Ben had his back and would always support him in any endeavor taken, no matter how haired-brained or mad it was. This... this scared him; to see Ben curled up as if he were a child again, abandoned and lost. He mentally kicked himself at his own stupidity – he should not have left him alone after seeing him take the bottle and wander off to apparently this area in the camp.

“Don't worry,” he said, crouching and drawing his friend into a tight embrace. Holding him for a few moments, he let go and sat back, holding Ben firm by the shoulders, saying, “General Arnold, he's staying here to watch over ol' Georgie. So are half of our forces. And they're not letting the assassin out of their sight. No one is going to try that again... not if they really want to face the wrath of our good ol' boys.”

“Half of the forces?” Ben asked, blinking as Caleb saw his eyes become clearer and sharper than they had been just a few moments ago. “We're facing Sheridan's Rangers, don't know where the British have retreated to, and Lee's not taking _all_ of our forces?! I already thought he was a fool to not even accept help from the US Army, but this... this is madness!”

“Benny-boy,” he began, before audibly sighing and letting go of his friend's shoulders.

He wasn't particularly interested in whatever schemes and politicking went on within the higher ups on the chain of command, but there was no stopping Lee's orders, no matter how stupid it sounded even to his own ears. He was in agreement with Ben's vocal protest, but Lee did have a point about keeping half of the army here – to protect and ensure that no other person tried to assassinate Washington. That and also Lee was taking the freshest of the Continentals to Philadelphia; their several-day fighting from Piscataway to Monmouth against British-Britannian forces had exhausted a lot of them. What was left of the 2nd Continental Light Dragoons were among the fresher and less tired of the army.

It didn't help that the future-people's supplies and their own robotic horses and artillery were also drained from their own recent battles. By rights, marching to Philadelphia was madness, but all officers had been briefed as to the weaponry that the 700 Sheridan Rangers carried – flintlocks. Not one laser rifle had been spotted among those that Natalie and the other spies of the Phladelphia Culper Ring had observed. As strange as it was, Caleb did wonder how 700 people suddenly appear, and he wondered if they were from another era that was not the same time frame as Lady Washington and the others.

“I know, I know,” Ben said, shaking his head slightly. “700 footmen with flintlocks. It just seems to good to be true, Caleb. I just... I just don't like leaving Washington here, even with half of the army. I have a bad feeling about this.” Caleb saw his friend scratch the back of his head for a moment before reaching down and plucking up the bottle of wine and handed it back to him. It had been virtually untouched. “Here. Sorry that I took this from you, and sorry about yesterday with that dagger thing.”

“You, apologizing,” he teased, “what has the world come to?”

Ben gave a bark of laughter, a genuine one that Caleb had not heard in a long time but then noticed that his expression had changed quite quickly to that of a contemplative one as his eyes focused on someone behind him. Turning, he felt the corners of his lips turn upwards as his eyes crinkled slightly in delight, seeing just who patiently stood waiting near their horses. Turning back, he patted his friend on the cheek, saying, “Don't take too long saying your charmingly sweet goodbyes to the lovely lady, Tall-boy.”

Leaving him spluttering for a moment in protest, he had and still found it quite amusing that Ben still wanted to keep whatever close relationship he had with Natalie a secret. Taking the rein of his own horse, he gave a silent nod towards her before tugging his horse away to give them some privacy.

Ever since he had observed his friend and her in that barn, sitting close together before springing apart like startled rabbits during a hunt, Caleb had been ever more observant of his friend's actions towards her. Every gesture that he had seen Ben extend towards her was quite endearingly cautious, as if she were to disappear in a blink of an eye – and in a way, Caleb realized that there was a good possibility that she could. That thought had made him sad, and he realized that Ben's actions towards Natalie was just to cherish the now, the moments they had together – neither knew what was in store for them in this mad future.

Perhaps he shouldn't have teased his friend so, but he was of the mind that if two people had a limited time together under God's good green earth, then propriety be damned, show some affection. The cloak-and-dagger business need not to extend into their personal lives. Shoving the bottle of wine into a pack, he climbed onto his horse. He thought he saw something strange out of the corner of his eyes, and as soon as he seated himself, he turned back and could not help but chuckle to himself. It was as if God was listening to his thoughts and decided to tell Ben what exactly he was thinking.

He watched in amusement as Ben rocked back on his heels in surprise before hastily turning his head away so that his friend or Natalie did not catch him peeking. Behind him, he could hear the snort of a horse and a few moments later, the sound of someone climbing onto said horse and clicking the beast forward. As soon as Ben pulled his horse up beside his, he glanced over – his friend was rosy in color and it was definitely not due to the chilly spring morning... and there was a tell-tale sign of a grin that was trying to be suppressed upon his face.

“Hey, Tall-boy,” he said, kicking the sides of his horse just as Ben followed his actions, “you want to know where else women-folk like to have your lips pressed against them?”

“Caleb.”

“Yeah?” he asked, openly grinning at just how annoyed Ben sounded.

“Shut up.”

* * *

_Somewhere in between Monmouth and Philadelphia..._

 

“And you're sure that these 700 rangers... these Sheridan's Rangers are reliable?”

“Quite certain,” Andre answered, even though he himself was not sure about the reliability of the mysterious Ranger group that his counterpart had transported through time. The Director was not present, having gone with Clinton back to New York when the unexpected arrival of Lieutenant General Georgia Washington at Monmouth had coincided with the arrival of the 700-host Sheridan's Rangers in Easton, Pennsylvania.

Though he did not know how the device plucked and transported people not of the era to different times, what he did know and understand, or at least as much as he was able to, was that his counterpart had not meant to transport the future-Washington to the past, but somehow had. Still, the battle was not a complete loss, for the 700 rangers had invaded and taken over Philadelphia even without the machinations of the Director, and New York was still in British hands. The added bonus was the fact that Long Island was also emptied of all Continental and US Army forces, and so ripe for the taking. Washington and his forces might have won Monmouth, but they were far and away from winning the war.

“Then we should go and introduce ourselves to their leader,” Cornwallis stated. “After all, they have given us a great boon in this war in the face of such a defeat that we have experienced at Monmouth.”

“Perhaps we should,” he agreed, for there had been nothing that his counterpart had told him about not meeting whoever was the leader of such a mysterious group. He also hoped that these rangers would prove to be more useful than Robert Rogers and his mercenary ilk. “However, before we leave, I have received the latest report from my scouts concerning the Continental Army. It seems that Lee has taken half of the forces and is marching south to confront those at Philadelphia.”

“All the more reason to meet the leader of these Sheridan's Rangers and solidify any strategy we might derive from our defense,” Cornwallis stated. “I am surprised though, Major, that you are still engaged in that sordid business with Lee. I had thought you'd abandoned that attempt to turn him to our side?”

“Yes and no,” he truthfully answered. “My reports also state that shortly after our retreat, an attempt on Washington's life was made. Though it failed, it seemed that he and the Continental Army are still recovering from the attempt and battle exhaustion, and can only move half of their forces to stop the Rangers. It is my hope that Lee will see that once we reinforce the Rangers, he will be severely outnumbered and will surrender. After all, who wants to be known as a commander who led all of his men to death in the face of such overwhelming odds? Perhaps then, we can end this sordid rebellion once and for all.”

“And if you had your choice, Major Andre, where would you propose we crush this rebellion?”

Andre pointed to a small town just outside of Philadelphia and inside the border of the colony of New Jersey. “I hear that the New Jersey Legislature illegally meets here, at the Indian King Tavern and that it also is patronage to several esteemed colleagues of the illegal Congress. What a fitting place for this war the end, here in the full view of those in Philadelphia, in this little town called Haddonfield.”

* * *

_New York City_

 

There would have been a smile on Abe's face at just how empty the city was when bereft of British soldiers, but with Anna and Anna's counterpart still missing, he could not help but fear the worse for both of them. For Anna's counterpart – he was sure that the flooding underground had all but killed the man. For Anna herself, well, no one had seen her since February and with each day that passed, his hope for her still being alive diminished.

There was also the fact that though the city had been empty in the morning, crowds of people murmuring concern and alarm at the arrival of British ships bearing wounded soldiers from what looked to be a terrible battle, had started in the afternoon. Soldiers had begun to trickle back into the city, but most were still down at the Bowery and the docks. It had been quite chaotic there, and even though Abe was sure that a counting of just how many survived whatever engagement had taken place that had caused the city to be emptied in its entirety, loitering without a true purpose would just serve to get him caught.

He didn't have the knowledge or skills to assist surgeons, and he certainly did not have the stomach to see open wounds for quite a long time. Perhaps he could get Townsend and his cabal to do the counting--

“Oy you! Skinny asshole!”

Abe looked up from his ambling back towards his home as he saw a man dressed in civilian clothing pointing at him. Had it not been for the curse that sounded so similar to 'arsehole', he would have thought it otherwise just another civilian looking to harass him. But it was not, and he realized that the man was pulling out a rather familiar-looking weapon that he had seen wielded by the future-people in Setauket.

“Bag the fucking rat!” another man behind him jeered as he turned to see a second man dressed in clothing of this era step out of an alleyway, also holding the same strange-looking rifle.

People along the street ducked out of the way, sensing that something bad was about to happen. Abe was poised to run, but considering how fast and accurate, and how it also set things on fire, the rifles were, he wasn't sure that he would be even able to out run such weapons. He was also now quite confident that Deputy Director Simcoe, for all of his flooding of the underground area, was now actually outing him as a spy. Abe squeezed his eyes shut, even with the involuntary raising of his hands in surrender.

“Complements of the Director, but he's fucking done with you, _boy_.”

“I think not.”

He immediately snapped his eyes open just as he heard a gurgling noise behind him, as the man's head in front of him suddenly exploded in a rather messy shower of blood and pulpy matter. As two bodies thumped to the ground, screams were heard and he whipped around, only to find of all people, Deputy Director Simcoe holstering a rather strange-looking pistol that had green-glowing lines running up and down its barrel.

Gaping at the man and at the horrifying mess that had been created, he barely heard the man say, “Run along, Woodhull. I'll clean this up. Go home. This is not your doing.”

“What...how?!”

“These are Director Andre's men,” Simcoe answered, nudging the body of the man that had been slit in the throat from what looked like ear to ear, with a foot. “He was probably quite angry to find his nice little underground facility flooded and inoperable. Then he decided to take it out on you. I would highly recommend going home right now and taking your family back to Setauket. The British have taken that and the other towns over, so you have an excuse to return. I will take care of this mess, but your opportunity to escape from the city is dwindling fast. Go. Now.”

“But--” he began, still baffled.

“I'm not going to say it again, Woodhull,” Simcoe said, pulling out his strange pistol again and leveling it at him.

Numbly nodding, he somehow managed to get his feet moving and without another glance back, ran as fast as he could away from the area. Barreling past people that shouted after him, calling him drunk and a rascal, he ignored their protests and continued to run. By the time he arrived back at his home, he was out of breath and breathing quite heavily.

However, when he entered, he was surprised to see Major Hewlett present, though instead of the normally pristine and clean-looking uniform that the Major wore, there were holes, soot, even splashes of blood covering the man's uniform. “Major Hewlett,” he said, as he saw his wife shoot him a questioning look as she served tea. “Um, it's good to see you alive and well.”

“Alive, yes,” Hewlett answered quite hoarsely before taking a sip of the offered tea. “Well... well, not so much. The battle was absolutely horrific and I shan't repeat it to any of you.”

“We would never have asked you to, Edmund,” Richard said, also sitting at the table, sipping tea before looking up at Abe. “So what has gotten you so out of breath, Abraham?”

“Um, Setauket!” he said, scrambling for his excuse as he saw a barely imperceptible frown flit across his wife's face. “I heard that we've taken Long Island from the Continentals!”

“Yes,” Hewlett said, turning slightly in his seat. “That is quite true, and it is a boon to us. The rebels and whatever heathen things they have for their armaments may have won Monmouth, but we have taken a key holding point from them and back into our hands. Thank you for that reminder, Abraham. I will have to ask High Command if they will allow me to resume my garrison duties at Setauket, for I do enjoy the countryside more than the city life.”

“That's great,” Abe said, clasping his hands together, nodding in agreement. “That's really great. It also means that we can finally go back home.”

“Yes... it does,” he heard his father say, though the tone of his statement sounded quite odd to him. His father did not elaborate on it, but there was something in his father's eyes that he did not like, and it made him slightly nervous. There was no argument to his suggestion, but at the moment, Deputy Director Simcoe's warning to get out of the city overrode any of his other concerns.

“I'll be upstairs packing, then.”

“What's the rush, Abraham?” his father asked, just as he made to leave.

“Oh, nothing,” he said, giving him a tight smile. “Just worried about the fact that Continentals may have destroyed your home, my farm... after all, its already spring and I'll need to resow the ground with new seeds.”

“Well, there is no rush, per-se, Richard,” Hewlett spoke up, taking another sip of the tea, “but I can understand Abraham's need to leave. There are a lot of wounded soldiers coming in and they will need the housing to recover, especially in the less crowded and noisy sections of the city such as this. It is only fitting that the boarding residence and the areas around here be given up for those injured so that they may live to fight another day. That and I'm sure there are many eager former residents of Setauket wanting to leave as soon as they can, now that they can go home with no repercussions.”

“I see.”

“Yep, so I'm going to go pack,” Abe repeated, giving his father a thin smile, glad that Hewlett had supplemented his hastily constructed excuse with a valid one. One day, soon, he knew that he would have to confront his father of his doings, but for now, if his father was content to let sleeping dogs lie, then he would too.

* * *

_A few days later, just outside of Philadelphia..._

 

“Haddonfield,” Lee stated, pointing to the small town just outside of Philadelphia in the east. “We will draw them out of Philadelphia and to here, where the farmland will give us clear firing lines. Once they are drawn into this field here, we will send additional infantry lines through the trees to encircle them from the back and pin any attempt to reinforce them from this tree line here.”

“They'll have the surprise of their life, sir,” Bradford agreed.

The cocksure smile that was on the man's face was irritating, but Ben willed himself not to take a step towards Bradford or raise his hand to even wipe that smile off of his face. Instead, he settled his eyes on the map and calmly voiced his opposition to the plan, saying, “I feel that surprise will not be a factor. Sir, our main body is so large that any element of surprise will be lost.”

“We don't need surprise,” Lee said, looking up at him with just the slightest of irritation lacing his tone. “For the first time in this bloody conflict, we have the numbers. Nearly 8,000 to their 700.”

“Are you sure?” he challenged, flicking a look at Greene who had the most impassive expression on his face before returning his attention to Lee. “Have we accounted for Cornwallis' location during his retreat? If--”

“Tallmadge,” Lee said, cutting him off. “I would have hoped that even stripped of your position as Head of Intelligence, General Washington had impressed upon you that the key to victory lies within correct Intelligence. My scouts have not seen any sign of Cornwallis or his forces during our march down. He is most likely retreated to New York with Clinton.”

“And within arm's reach of where General Washington is to counter strike if he so chooses,” he said. “Perhaps we should send messengers to Monmouth--”

“Perhaps you should ready your dragoons. They have the honor of leading the vanguard,” the general stated. “You, get to be the tip of the spear.”

Face with an order he could not disobey, not unless he wanted to be court martial and hung right then and there, he numbly nodded and said, “Yes, sir.”

It was a dismissal as good as any, and as he left and stepped outside of the tent, he stopped short of walking away and glanced back. Lee may had stated that there had been no sign of Cornwallis, but considering just how large of a host the retreating British-Britannian army was, he was sure that not all of them returned to New York. He had a very bad feeling about the battle that was about to commence.

He headed towards where the 2nd Continentals were camped and found Caleb melting some small nails and the like for bullets. “Look at the Tall-boy,” Caleb greeted as soon as he got near, grinning.

“We've,” he began, but found a lump stuck in his throat that prevented him from speaking. Swallowing past it, he tried to calm the worry churning in his stomach, saying, “Lee's ordered us to the front lines. The 2nd Light will be the vanguard for our push into Philadelphia.”

“Uh,” Caleb began, looking quite alarmed. “Ben... we're _light_ infantry. They're _Rangers_. What part of that attack last year by Sheridan's Rangers was not clear?”

“You will not be by yourselves in this vanguard.”

Startled by the French accent that graced the words, Ben turned and found that Lafayette and the French Intelligence agent were standing behind him. The young Frenchman's expression seemed uncharacteristically aged on his youthful face, but he saw the determination within those eyes of his. “Um, sir,” he managed to say, momentarily at a loss of words.

“My Musketeers, Thevenau, and I will join you as the vanguard for this battle. Your men will not carry this burden by yourselves. We are yours to command.”

“Sir,” he said, grateful for the assistance, “thank you.”

~~~

“Christ, now I know how you felt, Benji. It feels like a fucking elephant is sitting on my chest.”

“Hold on, Carrie. Just hold on. We're almost there. Sammie, you too.”

“I'm going to fucking murder the asshole that put Ben and Caleb in harm's way.”

Their words, though quiet, were meant only for ears closest to them, and he, Washington, was no where close to them at all. He was at the forefront of the advancing mass, and while more than a few horsemen separated him from the three that were speaking in hushed, pained tones. His own pain at his side was nearly unbearable, but he endured it, for he had to – this was the only chance he would get to outmaneuver his enemies in more ways than one. And he was not going to let that chance pass him by; not while he still had breath in him.

~~~

Clouds had gathered across the sky again by the time Ben, Caleb, Lafayette, de Francy, and their men fully stepped into the the field, only to see the trees on the other side of the field rustling. The taps of the drummer boy continued in a light manner as the flapping of flags being held by the flag bearers sounded in the silence that was broken by the occasional pop of a stick being broken in the woods ahead of them. Moments later, instead of the earthen colored dressage of rangers that they had expected to see emerge, it was instead bright red coats – British soldiers.

“My God,” Ben whispered more to himself than to Lafayette who was riding beside him. There were at least four separate companies of British lines, two rows each at about fifteen men per row that had emerged from the woods. “That's not Rangers... they're ready for us.” Knowing just how long it took his men to get ready and just how much more accurate British soldiers were, he shouted, “Halt!” The lines halted with the drummer boy falling silent as Lafayette, de Francy, and Caleb echoed his order. “Dress right, dress!”

The men aligned themselves, and he could see more than a few nervously fidgeting, wondering if their accuracy with the advanced rifles that they had carried with them would be enough to stop the British lines. They were running very low on cartridges and Lee had forbade them to replenish them from Lieutenant General Washington's people before they had left, citing that setting buildings and trees on fire was detrimental to a victory in Philadelphia.

He glanced back to see Bradford and the other lines of Continental soldiers emerging from the woods. It was Caleb's epithet that made him turn back, only to see more British double-lines come in from the northwest and northeast – five companies each. More were rustling in the trees behind the British.

Just as he thought it could not get worse, the forests on either side of their lines shook slightly, and to his horror, _now_ the Sheridan Rangers, dressed in the motley earthen colors with the blue cap and brown feather heads, emerged. They were carrying flintlocks, but they had effectively surrounded the Continental forces.

“Lee's marched straight into a trap...” he whispered before violently shaking his head. They could not give up at this juncture, not while they had the advantage in weaponry. “Caleb, get back to Monmouth--”

“Hell no, Ben!” Caleb protested.

“Thevenau, go,” Lafayette ordered before Ben could say another word.

“Oui,” the French Intelligence agent curtly answered, turning his horse around and galloping off of the field with all haste.

“He will bring word to General Washington on the situation here,” Lafayette said. “We must hold the line until reinforcements can arrive.”

Wasting no more time, Ben gave a nod of thanks to the French commander before drawing out his sabre and yelling, “First and second rows, at the ready!” A cascade of flintlocks moving from shoulder to the ready position, mixed in with the audible whine of the advanced rifles powering up was heard, along with his echoed orders coming from Caleb and Lafayette. “First row, aim!” Hammers were pulled back. The British and Ranger lines moved ever so closer. “Fire!”

The sound was loud enough to startle nesting birds into the air, but Ben did not waste time, even as some British soldiers fell and shouted, “Second row, aim!” Those at the front rows were already kneeling down to reload their flintlocks as Caleb took command of those with the advanced rifle and steadied their rate of fire for maximum effort. “Fire!”

The second volley of flintlocks was timed just as Lafayette ordered his own men to fire, and joined in with another volley from the advanced rifles. But their two-shot advantage was over as the Rangers and British soldiers finally came into range and unleashed a volley of musket balls. The rate of fire coming from the Rangers was staggered, but more accurate than what the British were doing. Ben saw his men get hit in the legs and arms, sending them careening to the ground as their screams of agony filled the air. Even his own horse was whinnying in fright as he fought to control the beast, trying not to be unseated or shot at from either side or the front.

“First row!” he shouted through the din, as he saw that what was left of the front lines of his forces had finished reloading. “Aim! Fire!” He could not get the order to fire out fast enough as yet another volley was unleashed from the British forces, pelting his men with iron balls.

“Fall back!”

Bradford's voice rang clear across the battlefield, and Ben knew that it was the wrong thing to say at this very moment. Chaos gripped the lines as the order to retreat was given again, and though he desperately tried to rally his men to stay and to continue to hold the line, the men's morale was sapping quickly as more fell wounded to the Rangers' shots.

As his men streamed past him, Ben sheathed his sword and ducked more than once as the British lines got even closer and tried to take shots at him. At the urging shouts of Caleb and Lafayette, he turned his horse and quickly joined the two in retreat. Up ahead, he could see that Greene had also turned his men around and was ordering a retreat in a more calm fashion than what the 2nd Continentals and Lafayette's men had done. Greene had the men to hold the line and was doing so to provide some semblance of cover for the men who had been on the front line. The host that Lee had almost brought in also had that capability, if not greater, so why were they retreating?

“Lafayette, please see to my men,” he ordered the Frenchman. “I'm going to get some answers.”

“Oui, sir.”

“Hey, Ben! Wait!” he heard Caleb's shout as he sent his horse into a canter to get to the front of the retreating forces where he was sure to find Lee.

Sure enough, as soon as he cleared the initial brambles of wood and passed by several of the men who looked to be in a melancholic fit of spirits, “General Lee, sir!” he said, spotting the man and maneuvered his horse so that he stopped their advance into the woods. With Caleb at his side, he continued to say, “General Greene is withdrawing, and all of our men are falling back at once.”

“Yes, I know,” Lee answered, halting his own horse as Ben saw Bradford give him a shrewd look. “I ordered them.”

“But sir, if we do not rally the men and hold a defensive line, we will not be able to hold them back until reinforcements can arrive from Monmouth!”

“Hold them?! Hold them how? Clearly the 700 Rangers that the initial Intelligence provided was false and led to this disaster! They have more than our numbers, and trained British soldiers with them – not mongrels who fight like natives! Retreat is our only option.”

“Clearly the scouts did not see Cornwallis retreat to New York City, _sir_ ,” he said, nearly growling his words. “Those Rangers are Sheridan's Rangers, and they would never fight like they did just now! They are clearly under the command of Cornwallis and his forces!”

“How dare you, _boy_!” Lee hissed before turning to Bradford and saying, “Colonel Bradford, if Major Tallmadge does not clear the road, he is to be hanged from that tree as a deserter!”

“Deserter?!” he gaped before cold fury took over his senses as he realized that Lee had absolutely no intention of turning around or winning – the man meant to surrender the army to British forces, Rangers or no. Ben could not let that happen, and drew his sword. Even before his sword cleared his scabbard, several other officers behind Lee, including Bradford had also drawn their sabres.

It was the sounds of drummers beating a lively cadence that shattered the silence in the air, and then the appearance of a rather large host of blue and brown that shattered the tension. Ben saw Lee's eyes widen slightly as he too turned and saw of all people, General Washington at the head of the army. He felt his arm gripping his sabre drop as he saw that not only was the rest of the Continental Army that had been left behind at Monmouth marching towards them, riding behind their apparently hale-looking commander was Lieutenant General Washington. Behind her was a multitude of familiar faces, including Knox, de Francy, Tallmadge, Natalie, von Stuben, Hamilton, Brewster, Laurens, Jefferson, even Billy Lee, and surprisingly, Samantha.

“General Lee,” Washington calmly stated, halting his horse as Ben moved his own horse to the side to allow his commander through, but not before taking another quick look back and over towards those behind Washington, still in disbelief at what he was seeing. “I've heard a most disturbing report from a young piper traveling in the wrong direction.”

“Sir,” Lee began, almost stuttering the honorific, “I thought you were at Monmouth recovering...”

“ _Why_ are your men in retreat?”

“There's been some confusion... sir...” Lee began but fell silent under the withering gaze that Washington had leveled upon him.

“There remains some,” Washington said. “Why are your men in retreat?”

“They were reinforced by Cornwallis' men and circumstances prevented the proper advance and I did not think a major offensive was in order...”

“You did not think!” their commander roared. “You never tried one! Cornwallis only has 6,000 men with him! There were even _two_ men within your command who had experience fighting against the Rangers! You should have consulted them!”

Ben furrowed his eyebrows slightly at that statement as he realized that Washington was talking about Bradford's experience over the winter...but who was the other – oh. He was the other one. His glance over towards Bradford told him all that he needed to know – Bradford had told Lee of the Rangers and of their ways of warfare, but Lee had dismissed it.

“You should have taken the entire army and should not have taken command if you did not intend to attack!” Washington continued on his tirade. “What the hell are you about man?!”

“I-I apologize,” Lee stuttered.

“To the rear, sir!” Washington ordered. Lee spluttered for a moment before Washington repeated his order, saying, “I said, to the rear!”

Caleb's piercing whistle of appreciation nearly spoiled the mood, but the shock coursing through Ben was great enough that he didn't even care. He saw Lee reluctantly hang his head before taking his horse away from those gathered. Ben would have watched the general leave in such shame if not for the strange small smile he thought he saw his commander give him. His brows furrowed for a moment before he realized that after all that had happened in the past few months, his commander had heard his words, had not been oblivious to the treachery that Lee had been planning – and had played his cards incredibly close to his heart.

The surprise that flooded through him as he sheathed his sabre was short lived as Washington briskly asked, “Colonel Bradford, how long to turn this around?”

“Fifteen minutes, sir,” Bradford answered.

“I want them ready to go through these woods, and ambush the nearest columns,” Washington ordered. “Major Tallmadge, ride out to General Greene and have him hold up the enemy while General Knox forms a defensive line with artillery. Major Jefferson, take your Gauss cannons and form an offensive perimeter. Generals Washington and Tallmadge, take your people and flush those Rangers out into the open. Baron von Stuben, take 4,000 and cut the British forces off from the Delaware River. The rest, with me.”

Flushed with eagerness and with the scent of victory in the air, Ben was among those whose cascade of voices acknowledging the order before he and Caleb galloped off to pass on the orders from their esteemed commander. It didn't take them long to arrive at the position where Greene was, and as soon as he passed on the message, he saw Greene sagely nod his head before a small smile appeared on the general's face. Racing back to where his own men were, he found them with a relieved-looking Lafayette, whom happened to be joined by a giddy Laurens and serious-looking Hamilton.

They reformed ranks and joined the slowly advancing lines from Greene's group. As they marched across the field to the drumbeats of victory, he saw the British lines continue to march forward, undeterred, but this time, there was the whiny noise of the advance rifles pelting through the air. Ranger lines that had been neat were scattered like the kicked embers of a campfire as the US Army flushed them out of their ambushing position.

Ranks upon ranks of the Continentals fired into the hazy smoke that covered the battlefield. Ben could not see a thing in front of him as the lack of a breeze deigned to carry away the smoke. They were firing blind now, and moments later, Greene had them halt their defensive measure – not wanting to waste bullets for no one could tell if they were hitting anything. The sounds of the advanced rifles also stopped, but his puzzlement as to why those with the capability to see through smoke had stopped their attacks was answered by someone shouting, “White flag rider! White flag rider approaching!”

He immediately sheathed his sword and nudged his horse out from behind the lines he had been commanding – a white flag rider meant that a truce was called, but after that assassination attempt, he was wary of anything that did not belong on a battlefield. There hadn't been enough time passed between the rallying of the troops to even fully press Washington's battlefield plan upon the British soldiers. He was not the only one who was suspicious, for not a moment later, the snorting of two horses brought Lady Washington and Tallmadge out of the soupy smoke.

Catching the shaking of his counterpart's head as he glanced over towards him, Ben joined the two in front of the firing lines – they would be the first to encounter the white-flag rider before any treachery could be had. A few minutes later, the light jangle of buckles and the sound of hooves on the ground was heard, along with the snort of horses. Tawny-colored horses emerged from the smoke, but Ben was instantly on guard, pulling out his pistol just as the whine of both Lady Washington and Tallmadge's rifles were also heard. The eyes of the two horses that carried their riders were not the eyes of normal horses – they were red; they were robotic horses.

However, their riders were dressed in the earthen colors of the Rangers, with triangular pieces of cloth tied over the lower-half of their faces and the were also wearing the familiar blue cap with the brown feather sticking out of the center. Both were carrying flintlocks, but the saddlebags that were on their horses were not what Ben would consider 18th century cloth-and-leather saddlebags, though there were pieces of a white cloth tied to the saddlebags. The two riders stopped a few yards from them, and he could see them narrowing their eyes slightly, but for what reason, he could not infer. The _clop_ of horses' hooves behind him and his companions a moment later caused Ben to turn slightly to see Washington emerge, but thankfully, he was not alone. Accompanying him were Hamilton and Samantha.

“Call off your Russian snipers, Lieutenant General,” the front most rider stated in a rather harsh but unmistakably feminine tone. “I'm here to negotiate and give you time to implement whatever plan you and your counterpart have for the British soldiers, not to kill you.”

Ben saw Lady Washington shift in her seat slightly before glancing back towards Washington. As much as he wanted to see what his commander's orders were, he kept his eyes forward and on the two Rangers, for it had not escaped his notice just how hostile his own counterpart looked as soon as the female Ranger spoke. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Lady Washington turn back to face forward in her seat before raising up a hand with the palm open before lowering it.

“I said _all_ of your Russian snipers, Lieutenant General.”

“I apologize, ma'am, but one of them is not under my direct command,” Lady Washington answered, giving the Ranger a smile that was definitely not friendly.

“Before I call off my agent,” Washington spoke up, walking his horse forward so that he was now seated side-by-side with Lady Washington, “we shall have your name and your companion's too. After all, how can negotiations be conducted in a civilized manner such as this without us knowing who you are?”

There was still an extremely stormy look upon his counterpart's expression as he returned his gaze to the front and saw the Ranger tilt her head for a moment. “As you wish, General Washington,” she answered. “Though I must say, that I find it ironic and most amusing to a degree as to whom you have chosen to accompanying you to protect you at this moment.”

He was not given time to puzzle over that statement for the woman suddenly reached towards her face and pulled the handkerchief covering off, as did her companion. He felt his breath hitch for a moment as his eyes widened of their own accord – not at the woman, but at the other Ranger who accompanied the woman. He had not received news last year of his brother's death on board the _Jersey_ , he could have sworn that the second Ranger was his brother Samuel.

“William,” he heard Tallmadge growl, “and... _mother_ ,” identifying both Rangers.

“That would be Commandant Sheridan,” the female Ranger snapped.

“And Captain Tallmadge, dear brother-mine,” the male Ranger said. “Best get used to addressing us by our ranks, even if you are family, _little_ brother.”

“And what governing body might have granted you those ranks, Commandant?” Washington asked in a calm tone, as Ben glanced over towards his counterpart to see him barely keeping his tongue in check from verbally lashing out at the two Rangers, his expression quite furious. He also noticed that Tallmadge's hand was hovering extremely close to the trigger on the rifle.

“Your Russian sniper first, General,” Sheridan said, gesturing with a hand towards the general area behind Washington. Ben saw his commander gesture in the same manner as Lady Washington did a few minutes earlier before settling his hands on the horn of his saddle. “To answer your question, we have our own governing body that determines the appropriate rank for each person in our organization. But, this smoke will not last and I am quite sure that General Cornwallis and his Head of Intelligence, Major Andre, will eventually have their curiosity piqued as to why there is a call for a white-flag rider.”

“What are your terms, Commandant Sheridan?”

“Neither my Rangers nor I had agreed to be transported to this era, but here we are. We'll give you Philadelphia without a fight, along with your Culper agents, unharmed of course, in exchange for Culpeper agents Samantha Tallmadge and Natalie Sackett.”

“No!” Tallmadge protested.

At the same time, Washington asked, “Are these _your_ terms or this Director Andre that I keep hearing about?”

“Why my own terms, of course. As I said before, my Rangers and I had not agreed to assist Britannia in this fashion,” Sheridan answered.

“Then perhaps I may offer you a different set of terms,” Washington said, his tone betraying nothing but calmness. “You have 700 excellent men and women under your command. If we ally with each other, perhaps--”

“You mistake our goals and intentions, General,” Sheridan interrupted, holding up a hand. “We don't ally with anyone. We choose to assist whomever we want to, and frankly, your ill-equipped and ill-trained Continental Army is losing this War for Independence, even with help from the Lieutenant General here. We gave you and your men mercy today on the battlefield – we could have easily used our laser rifles to cut all of you down, but we used flintlocks instead, and only wounded your men on the front lines before the British could cut them down. Think of it as a warning.”

Ben felt his hands tighten on the rein of his horse and his pistol as a cold fury swept through him. His men had been at the front lines, the vanguard, and wounded or not, many of them were not going to live through the night or lose the limbs that had been shot through. That was not mercy – that was pure cruelty for the sake of making a point.

“Why--”

“Philadelphia,” Tallmadge interrupted Washington, as he nudged his horse a step forward. “Give the Continental and US Army Philadelphia, _and_ the Culper agents, and I go with you.”

“Tallmadge!” Lady Washington hissed.

“Benji!” Samantha cried out in protest.

“Philadelphia and Culper agents, Commandant. I go with you because I created the Culpeper Ring, and you finally get what you want – me joining your Rangers, _mother_.”

“Absolutely--”

“Done,” Sheridan said before Washington or Lady Washington could voice their protest. It had happened so quickly that Ben did not even get to take two breaths during the exchange. He looked over towards his commander, seeing the furious look upon his face that was mirrored by Lady Washington, except hers was quite terrifying, due to her red eyes.

“As an added bonus,” Sheridan said, smirking slightly, “We'll stay out of this conflict and all future conflicts until we are returned to our rightful era. That way, I won't have you running off to rejoin your little motley band of rebels, Benjamin.”

“Yes... ma'am,” Ben heard his counterpart say not in the aggressive tone that he had heard just moments ago, but in a seemingly defeated, submissive one.

“This is preposterous!” Washington said, his voice rising with each word. “That man does not--”

“It's just good business, General,” Sheridan said. “Whatever terms you would have tried to come up with would have never been worth the price of the Sheridan's Rangers. He just saved your army from being slaughtered in this very field. Take the gift for what it's worth.” Before any of them could say another word, both of the Rangers turned their horses around and started to depart. Just before the smoke enveloped them again, the two riders paused and Sheridan turned back slightly saying, “Don't dawdle, Benjamin. The British are still out there. Time is of the essence.”

Ben saw his counterpart nudge his horse forward a couple of steps before seeing him holster his rifle and reach up for something. There was a slight _clink_ as he saw him yank the identification tags he wore off of his neck. Tallmadge turned and leaned towards him, holding the tags out. Ben leaned forward and the tags were dropped into his hand, with Tallmadge saying, “Three things, ancestor of mine. One: Rogers was infiltrated into Setauket. Two: take care of Sammie, Nat, and my people. I know no other better commander to lead them than you. Three: live. Live for both of us.”

Ben spluttered and could not get any of his own parting words out fast enough before his counterpart pulled away and quickly joined the two Rangers. His hand curled around the small metal plates as he saw the three horsemen disappear into the smoke. There was a hollow feeling growing inside of him – this was no way he wanted to win a battle or a war; for he felt like Abraham being commanded by God to offer his son Issac as a sacrifice – except that the sacrifice was accepted.

* * *

_Norwalk_

 

Anna could not help but continue to wring her hands as she anxiously paced back and forth in the small room that the tavern owner had 'generously' allowed them to use. A movement out of the corner of her eyes caused her to stop her pacing as she glanced up to see Andrew shifting slightly from the chair he was sprawled in, eyes looking which ever way at the candles that flickered in the room. 'Generous' usage of the room was much too strong of a word, for she had seen him strong-arm the tavern owner to allow them to take Selah up to the spare room to let him recover.

In the days that had passed since Selah had stumbled into the tavern with the message about Setauket, the entire town had been abuzz with rumors of the Continental army being pushed back from Long Island. There had been riders and rumors of a battle taking place near Monmouth, along with rather wild stories about skies being blinded by Holy lights or red, green, and blue. She had not put much stock in the rumors except for the 'Holy lights', for by the description, it sounded as if the strange rifles that spat out blue bolts had been seen and used once again.

Gazettes printed by both British and Patriot printing presses told of a battle happening at Monmouth. The Continentals had been declared victors, but the British papers had stated that they had successfully defended New York from being invaded by the Continentals and had retaken all of Long Island. Neither was generous in the details of what had happened in that battle, hence more wild rumors flying all over the place. However, there had been no mention of any spies being hung or caught, and that brought some relief to her – Abe was still alive.

“No. No!” she heard the voice of her husband murmur as she and Andrew both looked towards the bed to see him thrashing slightly before bolting awake.

“Selah!” she cried, rushing to him and cradling him as her voice drew his gaze to her. “Thank the Lord,” she said, tears springing to her eyes. Despite still loving Abe and worrying for him, she found herself relieved to see her husband unharmed. The guilt of what she had done in his absence had torn at her since her departure to New York City, and she hoped that he would eventually forgive her for what she had done to him.

“Anna?” he said, confused. “What... what are you...? Where am I? I thought you left...”

“I'm here now and you're safe,” she answered. “Safe and sound. We're in Norwalk.”

“Norwalk?” he asked, but then slipped out of her embrace as he sat upright, looking around with alarm. “Setauket! Setauket has been taken by British forces!”

“We know,” she said, trying to press him back down as he tried to climb out from under the covers. “You said as much when you stumbled into the tavern here.”

“We?”

“Erm, hello,” Andrew spoke up, as Anna look over towards where her descendant was, with Selah following her gaze. The young man was leaning against the wall opposite of the bed, with one foot bracing himself against the wall in a casual fashion. Giving a slight wave of his hand, he continued to say, “I'm Andrew Strong. A descendant of both you and Anna here. Pleased to see that you're doing much better, Mr. Strong.”

“Christ, I thought it was strange enough serving Tallmadge's 'descendant' ale on occasion...” she heard her husband mutter. “But this... this is ridiculous.”

“You and me both,” Andrew said, pushing off from the wall and approaching. “So I take it that the 2nd Legionnaires and Major Tallmadge... erm, pardon, my Major Tallmadge, are not in Setauket?”

“No,” Selah said, shaking his head slightly, looking down at his hands for a moment. “Last I heard was from a Lieutenant Adams under his command was that they were _all_ being called to Westport. The entire eastern half of Long Island did not have any single garrison when they left... no resistance of any sort when the British army took us.”

“But now all Patriots know,” Anna stated, patting her husband on the arm. “Thanks to your warning, the printing presses have already announced the taking of Long Island. Perhaps that will recall those from Monmouth and they can retake Long Island.”

“Monmouth?” Selah questioned.

“There seemed to have been a rather large battle between Washington and the combined forces of Cornwallis and Clinton,” Andrew said. “It's how Anna and I managed to get out of the city – it was emptied. The presses have proclaimed a win for Patriot forces.”

Anna watched as her husband furrowed his brows in silence for a few moments before saying, “If they are still at Monmouth, they'll probably already heard of Long Island being taken, but there's more information that General Washington needs to know besides the garrisons they'll most likely have set up there again. If the 2nd Legionnaires are there with Washington, and there's a place that I need to get to in New Haven that will help me relay that information. Tallmadge, your Tallmadge Mr. Strong, told me of it as a precaution in the event that the 2nd Legionnaires could not hold Long Island.”

“I'm headed to Boston myself,” Andrew said. “I would offer to take and relay the message myself, but I don't know what Benji had told you about whatever is set up in New Haven. And its better if I don't know the information myself – less chance of being compromised and all that, since Connecticut is most likely rife with British patrols. I'll come with you.”

“Well don't go gallivanting off without me, boys,” Anna spoke up, feeling a bit left out. While she was extremely surprised that Ben's counterpart had managed to enlist Selah in spy-like duties, she was not about to be left behind again. It was also time that she revealed to her husband what exactly had driven her to go to New York and her role in this Culper Ring business – in the hopes that he would begin to forgive her transgressions done to him. If Ben's descendant trusted him with such a way to deliver news to him and his men, then he would be able to keep one of her secrets.

“Anna,” Selah said, looking up at her, shaking his head slightly. “It's much too dangerous--”

“To go and send a message that has not been fully encrypted in the methodology that has been established by General Washington and Major Tallmadge – our Major Tallmadge, Selah,” she finished for him. “I know the codes and method that will ensure that any message that gets to Ben is safe and secure. That's why I left for New York. That's why I couldn't stay in Setauket. The cause needed me for this.”

While it was stretching the truth slightly about her role within the cabal without mentioning that she did it mainly to support Abe, there was truth to her words. She had seen Abe methodically code each message, and she had even encoded her own report from that Elizabethtown meeting last year in the same manner. She had memorized all major numerical and foreign language encryption from the code book.

The stony look that appeared on her husband's face did not deter her though, but she did hear Andrew step back and leave the room, wisely sensing that it was better for the two of them to be alone for the moment. As soon as the door was shut, Selah asked, “Did _he_ enlist you in this task?”

“Selah--”

“Did Abraham Woodhull enlist you?!”

“No!” she said, standing up from the bed, her hands clenched at her sides. “Abe did not! It was I who enlisted him, who convinced him to help the cause – to choose a side! Everything that I've done, I've done of my own free will and accord!”

The silence that filled the room was uncomfortable until Anna heard him whisper in a pleading tone, “Do you still love him?”

“Yes,” she whispered, for she knew that it would be so easy to lie and say that she did not, but there were just some lies that she could not tell. “I did and I still do... but neither has my love for you been diminished.” The silence that followed her proclamation was even more uncomfortable and soon, she asked, “Selah?”

“I told him to take care of you before I was transported to the _Jersey,_ ” he said in a melancholic tone. “New Haven then. We'll go to New Haven. Together. After that...”

* * *

_Morristown_

 

The cat squirmed in his arms as he picked it up from the end of its mouse hunt in his barn and closed the door with a foot. As Nathaniel wrestled with the cat into a more comfortable position within his arms, trying to avoid its batting paws that could scratch at the bandages covering his head and face, he heard the clatter of hooves thundering into the camp. Looking up, he saw a regular civilian courier dismount with a letter in hand and approached him.

“Pardon me, sir, but do you know if General Arnold is in camp?” the courier asked as soon as he got close.

“Yes, but he is busy at the moment,” he answered, frowning slightly. “I can take the letter for you and give it to him.”

“Please do. It comes from New Haven with all haste, and while I would give it to him myself, I have many more urgent missives to pass along, now that Long Island has been retaken by British forces and their ships are moving ever so closer to the Connecticut coast. They're saying that British sails has even been sighted as far as Rhode Island!”

Concern flooded him with the worrying news about Connecticut and Rhode Island as he took the letter. Adjusting the cat in his arms to a more manageable position, he bade the courier farewell before glancing at the front of the letter. The script that penned Arnold's name was flowing in nature and judging by that, it could have only been written by a woman. However, he knew that though Arnold continued to write Peggy Shippen without truly knowing the woman's role in the Philadelphia incident, young Shippen was not in New Haven. She was in Boston, serving as a governess to his, Nathaniel, and his wife's children.

Ever since he had heard about the 'historical' betrayal of Arnold – selling Fort Westpoint to the British in exchange for money to settle his debts, he had done some 'research' into Arnold's dealings and just what the debt amounted to. What he had discovered surprised him quite a bit, but it also worried him. Arnold had the debt long before he had joined the Continental Army, and with Congress nearly broke for money, they had not even paid a full half of what was actually owed to all officers. Arnold's sons and sister lived in New Haven, and while they ran their apothecary as best as they could, they were not making enough to even balance the books each year.

Glancing up at the house where he knew that beyond that was the shed where they had kept Rogers and the two other Queen's Rangers for a few months last year. It was now home to Abigail Woodhull, who had been thankfully captured at Monmouth and brought back by Arnold, but not before she had nearly succeeded in her assassination of Washington. Arnold was busy securing the prisoner at the moment, and given the man's temperament, Nathaniel had a feeling that he would continue to be 'busy'. As much as he detested how interrogations of spies were usually conducted, a courier riding with Arnold had informed him that Arnold was under strict orders from Washington not to kill the prisoner. Still that did not mean that an interrogation of sorts would take place.

He knew that he should stop the man, but right now, there was a more pressing concern, and he hoped that his concern was not founded. Arnold had written to his sons, and they occasionally wrote back when they could afford to pay for a courier to send a missive, but his sister never wrote to him. This letter was unexpected.

“Oh, so now you want to just cling on to me, Mr. Mouser,” he said, adjusting the cat once again as it sunk its claws into his chest and left arm as he turned and opened the barn door again. Ignoring the cat, he placed the letter down near a candle and candle holder. Striking the flints next to the candle holder, the candle lit up and he place the two rocks down before carefully picking up the letter.

Flipping so that the wax seal on the letter was facing the ceiling of the barn, he carefully held the letter over the flame. It was tricky not to leave any burn marks or set the letter on fire, but with years and years of practice in opening letters this way to help solidify his 'abilities', opening this letter was quite easy. With the wax not quite melted, but soft enough so that he was able to part the parchment from the seal, he carefully opened the letter and scanned the contents.

[ _My dear brother, I have the most wonderful of news to impart to you. A gentleman by the name of Shaun Graves has been calling upon me for the past month. Imagine that! Me at my age, with my youth and beauty diminished as so, and yet this gentleman still adores me so. He is of good stock, from the coastal farmlands of Long Island, and has been helping your sons and I with the apothecary, though he is more of the sorting and arranging of the shop than of the sales for now. Because of his help, today, we have finally made black in the books. It is with hope that perhaps the rest of this year will see us rise from the red and perhaps we will be able to finally settle at least one of our debtor's accounts before year's end. Always, your loving sister._ ]

Nathaniel could feel the frown on his face get deeper as he heard the cat still clinging onto his chest softly meow. The letter seemed innocuous enough and quite delightful, but something about the content unsettled him. Try as he might, he could not place where exactly the feeling had come from in the letter, and it frustrated him so. Deciding not to keep the letter upon him for any longer than necessary, he folded it back up and carefully held it over the candle again. With the wax seal melted a little more than the first time, he pressed the sides of the letter back together, completely sealing it.

With his memory recall technique, he would copy the contents of the letter down in his own personal journal later for further analysis, but for now, there was good news to hand to Arnold, and an interrogation that he needed to stop.

* * *

_Setauket_

 

Abe glanced up at the swinging sign that used to be the Strong Tavern. The sign still read Strong after the Continentals had taken over Setauket, but there were rumors that Selah Strong, who had stayed behind after departure of the main army, had fled when British soldiers had retaken the town. He entered the tavern to find it quite noisy and full of the usual patrons he had seen in the tavern before the Continentals had ousted the British last year.

Dejong was now running the tavern again, and he wondered if the man was going to repaint the sign anytime soon. It had been only a day since he and his family had arrived back in the town, but it was already feeling like what it usually felt like before Ben and the others had 'freed' the town. Except that Anna was not there to make it a little more bearable.

“One pint,” he said as he approached the bar, signaling to Dejong for his drink as he looked for an empty table to sit at. Spotting one near the corner, he picked up the pint that the man slid towards him and walked to it. Sitting down, he sighed and rubbed his forehead. While his wife and son were back at the farm, his father had requested him over to his residence at White Hall – Abe was now fortifying himself for what he could only perceive as a soon-to-be unpleasant encounter.

He was sure that his father had suspicions of what he was doing for Washington ever since Anna disappeared, but with things so precarious, had never called him out on it. It was similar to Mary's silence about his role in this spy business until she broke down and confessed. Now that they were no longer in New York, he suspected that his father would be lecturing and warning him about any attempts to re-infiltrate the city. Abe had no immediate intention to, not until he was sure that Deputy Director Simcoe had taken care of Director Andre and the problem of being potentially compromised by elements that he still could not fully comprehend.

“Ya couldn't pay me enough to return to this God-forsaken, backwater, swamp of a land. But here I am, and its only because I think that future-descendant welp who calls himself Tallmadge is mad and some descendant of yours has also gone mad.”

Abe's eyes widened of their own accord as another pint of ale was thunked down in front of him, and with it, a rather heavy-set body with a familiar accent. He looked up and saw Robert Rogers sitting down in front of him with the most belittling of looks upon his face. A few curious people glanced over at them, but Rogers had not said his statement loud enough for anyone else but him to hear it.

“You got that fear in your eyes, _boy_ ,” Rogers said, taking a rather large gulp of the ale before placing the mug back down. “Good. Because that fear is what is going to keep you alive. Your descendant has gone mad and tried to assassinate good ol' George after their glorious victory at Monmouth.”

He remained silent, not because of fear now, but because of shock. How had his descendant even attempted to kill General Washington? He had thought she was injured beyond the simplest of movements. It had nearly killed him and Samantha Tallmadge to get her out.

“I knew that there was always something wrong with you... something strange...” Rogers continued. “And now, I know why.”

* * *

_Philadelphia_

 

Celebrations were of the order for the battle won at Haddonfield, and Philadelphia just so happened to heartily participate in that celebration. Cornwallis had retreated again, but this time, scouts had properly reported his retreat to be towards the coast of New Jersey with the intent on possibly sailing back up to New York. Over half of Cornwallis' forces had been captured in the battle, but both Cornwallis and Major Andre had managed to escape.

Still, that did not sour the mood of the soldiers, for victory at Monmouth and a swift victory at Haddonfield proved to be a great boon to morale. That, and also of Lee's fall from grace – which was one of the many curiosities that Ben wanted answers to and had him currently present in the foyer of the home that Greene had occupied but generously vacated so that Washington and the others of his command staff could rest here.

By all rights, he knew that he should be out celebrating with the rest of the men, but he was not in the mood to. Most of it was due to what had happened during the aggressively fast negotiations between them and the Sheridan's Rangers. That hollow feeling was still lingering inside of him, and it didn't help that it was being exacerbated by the sniffles that accompanied hiccups of Samantha who was leaning against him. She continued to occasionally wipe her eyes of her tears, as he held her with one of his arms, but she had refused to sit down and insisted on waiting with him until Washington was ready to receive him.

There were no words that he felt he could say to her that would be adequate enough to comfort her, and so he remained silent, allowing her to cry on his shoulder as she mourned. While he was sure that his counterpart was not dead, Samantha's reaction to her cousin's departure told him otherwise and a little more about the sinister nature of the Sheridan's Rangers – no one returned from joining that rebel group. He clenched his left hand a little more, feeling the small metal identification plates dig into his palms as he mentally railed against what God had intended for the victory to happen at Haddonfield. Was one good man's life worth it? He could not tell and prayers that he asked had not been answered.

The entrance to the house was opened as he glanced back for a moment to see Caleb, Natalie, and Brewster enter. Accompanying them were the Philadelphia-based Culper agents: Lieutenant Creighton, Austin Roe, and the twins Leigh and James Hattersfield. Creighton had been captured by the Rangers and had clearly suffered for his resistance, for the officer had bandages covering his neck and over his right eye. The other three spies had also been captured but it seemed that they had not been as maltreated as Creighton had been.

“I thought you might want the entire Ring here for the debrief, Ben,” Natalie explained.

“Thank you,” he gratefully answered, but before he could say anymore, the door to the drawing room that Washington had occupied for his office opened, spilling light out into the dim hall.

He saw Greene step out, giving all of those waiting in the hall a nod in greeting before Billy Lee also stepped out and said, “General Washington is ready for you, Major Tallmadge.”

Letting Samantha go, he saw her nod slightly, letting him know that she was not going to collapse in grief. He worried for her, but she seemed to be remarkably strong willed, even in the face of such tragedy. He was not used to seeing women react like that and it only served to further the great social divide between their eras.

“Sir,” he said in greeting to Greene as he passed the general. “Thank you, Billy,” he said as he stepped up and passed Washington's manservant, stepping into the room. The door closed after him, with Billy standing outside in the hall.

While familiar-looking, the drawing room had been transformed upon his commander occupying it. More than a few chairs and tables that had littered the room, along with odds and ends had been removed. A rather large table had been moved in and it was covered in maps. There was a settee in the far corner of the room, but surprisingly, he did not see his commander resting upon it as he thought Washington would do, considering just how grievous of a wound he had received days earlier. Instead, his commander was sitting behind a polished oak desk, with stacks of letters and reports on either side of him.

Lady Washington was standing near the table of maps, bent slightly over it, as if she was reading or analyzing something upon the maps. However, the biggest surprise that caught him was the fact that the three Russian agents under Lady Washington's command were in the room. He had seen Captain Horn and the other guardsmen around and outside of the house, constantly wandering around and not staying in one place in their vigilant patrol – he had thought the three foreign agents among those patrolling.

“Sir,” he began, seeing that his commander was going to not dismiss the others already in the room as he saw Lady Washington look up from her perusal of the map, focusing her attention with the same intensity that he saw in Washington's eyes. “And ma'am, congratulations on the first two victories of the year.”

“It was the obvious victory in the most forgiving sense of the word,” Washington murmured, as he saw his commander scratch off a quick sentence with his quill before putting the feather back into the inkwell.

Whether his commander referred to the Monmouth and Haddonfield victories, the survival of the assassination attempt, or even the removal of Lee from command, he wasn't entirely sure. “We saw their backs twice in less than two weeks, sir,” he said, hoping to receive some clarification, even though he knew that the victory at Haddonfield was effectively gifted to them with the departure of the Sheridan Rangers. “That's something the men will never forget.”

“Symbolic ones then,” Washington quietly answered, and Ben could see that he understood too, just how much both battles had truly cost them. Though the Russian agents had not been present during the negotiation with the Rangers, the hollow feeling that had been lingering inside of him seemed to shrink with his commander's oblique acknowledgment of what had happened.

However, he did have a foremost question on his mind, and so he continued with that, asking, “Your Excellency, there is something I need to ask you.”

“How long did I know of General Lee's treachery?” Ben saw his commander unfold his hands and slowly stand up from where he was sitting. Lady Washington had moved at the same time he did to assist Washington, but Washington waved both of them away as he stood against the desk, partially bracing himself with his hands against the edge. “Are your agents present and accounted for, Major?”

“They are. The Philadelphia branch is also accounted for and waiting in the foyer,” he answered after a moment of surprise. It had not escaped his notice of Washington's address of the Culper agents as 'his agents'. Was he to be reinstated as at least the one in charge of the Culper Ring? Had his commander regained faith in the Ring and how? The questions ran through his thoughts, but he was also glad that Natalie had the foresight to bring all of them to the house.

“Then, Agent Volkov, please tell them to come in.”

Ben saw the what he could only presume as the leader of the three Russian agents silently nod before heading to the door. He knew next to nothing about that man or the other agents, other than what little interaction he had with Natalie's younger sister before the attempted assassination of his commander had happened. Given what had happened, he was not sure if either his commander or Lady Washington would try to integrate the three agents into his possible command, or they would remain as bodyguards.

A few moments later, the eight men and women of the Morristown and Philadelphia Culper Ring branches entered. Volkov had shut the door, but Ben saw that Roe and the Hattersfield twins were gaping slightly at the appearance of Lady Washington, while Creighton looked slightly unsure if he was actually supposed to be here. Samantha still had red-rimmed eyes, but she had stopped her sniffles and drew herself up so that she did not give the appearance of faltering in front of her commanders. They were an extremely motley group, but Ben was proud of all of them, of what they had accomplished in the past year. Even if he were not to remain in command of them, what they had done with the circumstances thrown at them was admirable. He only wished that Abe, Anna, even 355 Abigail and Sackett were present. They too deserved to be acknowledged at least by Washington for their actions, even if it were to remain secret for at least the next hundred years or so.

“Major,” Washington said, drawing up a piece of parchment that was on the left stack, “this is the report from the Ring's signal agent, verifying Lieutenant Carrie Brewster's observations at Elizabethtown. This in turn, verified statements made by you, your counterpart, and Agent Sackett here.”

Puzzled as to why his commander had waited for so long and not acted on the intelligence when delivered, Ben opened his mouth to ask, but before he could, his commander said, “I had to wait for the most opportune of time. It is better to be court-martialed as a failure than as a traitor.”

It was as if a fog that had been clouding up his mind and thoughts since the victory at Brandywine had been pushed away as he realized just how foolish his own plans to out Lee as a traitor had been. The words that his commander had stated in that forest when confronting Lee for his call to retreat at Haddonfield were everything that he had wanted to stay to Lee, and more. People grumbled about the 'witchcraft' that ran through the camp and among their 'allies', but it was that same 'witchcraft' that they celebrated for their victories. Lee's push to show that they needn't depend on the future-people was justified, only that it would have worked had the British been of the same mind.

But Washington was not done as he held the paper forward, saying, “Please take it and read it, Major. This is the _full_ report that your signal agent sent me.”

Ben frowned slightly as he stepped forward and took the piece of parchment from his commander. As he read through it, it looked familiar, but there seemed to be a lot more words than he remembered seeing. A lot more damning words about Lee _and_ Bradford, and a lot less clearer words about Anna's potential compromise as an agent. What exactly had he read then, just before he had been dismissed as Head of Intelligence?

“Sir,?” he questioned, handing the report back. “What of Colonel Bradford?”

“He will be dealt with accordingly,” Washington answered. “Though his actions seem as egregious as General Lee's, it is because of this report that his punishment will fit the crime he has committed. I was informed by your counterpart prior to his delivery of the weapons to Morristown of the Sheridan Rangers harassing those living in the Connecticut-New York border towns. To separate Lee from further colluding with Bradford, I therefore, sent Bradford to Connecticut. During the march to Haddonfield, I had hoped that if Lee did not heed your warnings about the Rangers, that he would at least heed Bradford's warnings and had hoped that it would not have resulted in the losses that was sustained at Haddonfield.”

“Sir,” he spoke up, “if I may put in a statement with regards to Colonel Bradford's character at his trial?” The surprised look that appeared on his commander was an interesting sight, but Ben did not let that deter him and continued to say, “Though I do not know of his actions during his patrol of Connecticut, I have seen his bravery displayed on the field during action at Monmouth. He charged the lines without hesitation when he knew that it was certain death for him and the men he commanded.”

It was the truth, and while not damning, after all that had happened, Ben could not bring the spite he felt towards Bradford to the forefront anymore. All he felt for the man was pity, especially since his commander had been utterly humiliated in front of the entire army. No one wanted to be associated with that at all, and Ben knew that if the sentence leveled against Bradford was not death, then the man would have to live with the stigma of what his commander had done for the rest of his life.

“We shall see about adding that statement,” he heard his commander murmur before saying.

Still in a confessing mood, Ben said, “Sir, I would like to add another statement that may result in my own court-martial.”

He saw his commander narrow his eyes slightly. “Go on.”

“I received two personal letters from Miss Margaret Shippen last October,” he said. “I had been trying to cultivate her as an agent of sorts for Philadelphia and its outskirts, hence my correspondence with her. It was not made apparent to me of the insidious nature of the contents between the lines of these letters until I saw that she had also written General Arnold a similar personal letter. In putting together the three letters, a plot was discovered by my agents and I. We knew of possible spies within the camp and a possible assassin lurking within the camp, but had no means of identifying them or the assassin. I ordered my agents to not inform you until we could identify them. I failed in my duty.”

“Fortunately for you and your agents, Nathaniel Sackett is _not_ under your command, Major,” Washington said after a moment. “He informed me of the letters prior to his departure to Philadelphia with Agent Tallmadge here. Lieutenant Brewster may have forced the issue of training the men with the new weapons in exchange for yours and Agent Sackett's departure to Philadelphia last year, but I had thought Philadelphia to be a safer haven than Morristown. The indisious nature of this business is that there is danger to any of us.”

His commander held up another piece of parchment, saying, “This is the report from Culper sent last autumn. Agent Tallmadge, if you would brief the room please on Deputy Director Jonathan Simcoe?”

“Yes, sir,” Samantha said, as Ben turned to look at her, confused. “It is my theory that Simcoe gave Abe that report last year and that he has been manipulating Culper since his and the signal agent's arrival in New York. I had the chance to infiltrate twice into the facility that Culper and 723 had informed us about via the report on dry wells back in the summer. He had been keeping our 722 and Agent Strong as prisoners, if only to appease Director Andre. He is no ally of ours, but he has done much to protect Culper and the others, including flooding the underground facility. I had not known of our Lady Culpeper's compromise as an agent and had I done so, I would not have taken her from the facility and neither would have Culper. That being said, he and Director Andre have had every chance to give Culper and those in New York up to British authorities, but neither had not. For Andre, it is simple double-agent manipulation that keeps him from compromising those in New York. For Deputy Director Simcoe, it did not become apparent as to the reason why until I confronted him – he is trying to stop Director Andre. His goals still align with Britannian goals – that is to win the war, but he is of the same mind as the rest of us – we cannot keep these two timelines merged. To do that, we must stop Director Andre and the devices, and to do that, we must extend some trust to him.”

“Why?” Ben asked, suspicious.

“Because he is the one who implanted details of where the transportation devices are within Natalie and my heads using the memory device when we were captured in Philadelphia and forced to relive memories and sensations of the seventeen agents that had been sent to kill Director Andre in our time,” she answered.

“He couldn't have done all of that,” Natalie spoke up, “unless...”

“Too much manipulation of his positronic brain results in degradation,” Lady Washington finished the thought. “He does not have the ability to 'jump' into a new mind anymore, not while he is here in this era. Director Andre is slowly slipping into madness even if he himself does not see it.”

“And with that madness, brings us the opportunity to put several agents within New York City,” Washington said. “Long Island has been taken again, and British-Britannian forces are poised to be pressing upon the coast of Connecticut. Given that these dangerous factions know of those of the Culper Ring, it is best if we attempt to infiltrate those unknown and new – those of Philadelphia – while we exfiltrate Mr. Culper, the signal agent, 723, and 355.”

Ben blinked, quite stunned as he realized that Washington was not as callous as he had initially thought during his dismissal as Head of Intelligence and his commander's refusal to remove Abe and the others from harm's way. Had his commander's infiltration of Samantha and Natalie into New York and Philadelphia, respectively, been in anticipation of replacing compromised agents?

“Before I left with our Miss Culpeper, Culper informed me that he and the others would try to search for Agent Strong and the signal agent,” Samantha spoke up. “Deputy Director Simcoe had unlocked Agent Strong's cell before flooding the facility. I am confident that at least Agent Strong may still be alive, and I am prepared to return to New York.”

“Sir, given the delicate nature of Culper's ties to the city,” he said before Washington could give an answer to Samantha's statement, “and the fact that Setauket and other towns have been retaken, if I may suggest that infiltrating into Long Island and then into New York be better? Troops, provisions, and civilians will be moving in either the east or west direction from the city to Long Island will be easier for agents to slip through than those coming from the south or north.”

“An excellent suggestion,” Washington said, nodding. “Agents Tallmadge and those of the Philadelphia Ring, please ready yourselves to depart shortly.”

“Yes, sir,” the collective group of agents smartly answered before departing.

“Lieutenants Brewster,” Washington said after the door closed, holding up a folded piece of paper, “Ready yourselves for departure to Morristown. I want Miss Culpeper transported with haste and secrecy to this particular safe house in Connecticut. Mr. Sackett is to also bring his truth serum with him.”

“Yes, sir,” both Caleb and Caleb's counterpart said at the same time as Caleb took the piece of paper, unfolded and quickly read it before handing it off. Brewster also read it and then handed it back to Washington, who then burned it. Ben watched his best friend depart with a rather confident smile on his face as Brewster gave a rather jaunty salute towards their commanders.

With the door closed again, that left only him and Natalie facing Washington and Lady Washington, and though Ben had grown confident in the minutes that had passed that his commander was not abandoning the Ring, his own position within the army was still questionable. “I find it most puzzling that Major Andre, as mentioned in the signal agent's report, has also not proclaimed the guilty nature of our agents,” Washington began, tapping the parchment that contained Anna's report. “There are too many factors to consider at this juncture and must be set to the side for now. However, given the delicate nature of the morale that governs the hearts of our soldiers, I cannot give them the news that I received earlier this evening from Commander Creighton who rode down from Boston with all haste.”

Ben saw him pick up a different piece of parchment, staring at it for a moment before saying, “The _Ember of Winter_ had engaged two of the 'ships' that had been moored at New York per Culper's report while our actions at Monmouth and Haddonfield was happening. These 'ships' were similar submersibles to the _Winter_ and account for the purported 18-gun sloops in the report. They were driven back to near Rhode Island but not pursued. Boston may very well come under threat from British-Britannian forces, Major Tallmadge. You, your men, and those of the 2 nd Legionnaires will ride to New London, Connecticut and await further orders.”

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“Agent Sackett, you will go to Boston and begin cultivating agents within the city. Miss Shippen may now find it amenable to serve the cause. You may find her at the Sackett residence in the city. Ensure that all reports, scouting or otherwise from the region will be passed to Major Tallmadge.”

“Done, sir,” she answered.

“Sir 721,” Washington spoke up before either he or Natalie could make to leave. “Do you trust the integrity of the Culper Ring?”

Surprise filled him with his commander's words as he realized that for even with all of their failings in the past year, his commander had not given up on them. “I do,” he answered with confidence. “With my life and yours.”

“Excellent. Once the safety of Culper and those originally of Long Island and New York are secured, you are to direct them to prevent the 'historical' defection of General Benedict Arnold.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 17 Feb 2016 - and so ends this crazy version of Season 2! We now go into filler chapter mode until Season 3 of TURN starts airing. Then we'll go back to your regularly scheduled insanity.
> 
> For filler chapter mode, this will include (and will not be limited to): omake episodes, deleted scenes (there are quite a few), alternate scenes, and commentary (re: wrangling arguments) between the characters and me, the author. Please subscribe (creating an AO3 account is free and relatively painless) if you want to receive updates for new chapters and when the Season 3 parallel chapters start. Thanks for reading thus far!


	17. Extras: Deleted and Alternate Scenes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A collection of deleted and alternate scenes from the beginning of this crazy fic up until Chapter 16. Notes before and after the scenes will indicate if it is considered story canon or not.

**Deleted Scene 1: Chapter 5**

_Morristown, New Jersey_

 

“If you would please tell me Miss Sackett,” Washington said as he moved a queen's pawn on the chess board forward to counter Sackett's movement of the queen's bishop, “out of the methodologies that you have perused thus far in espionage, are there any ones that our agents within New York may benefit from?”

Though the chess game was being played between him and Sackett, Sackett's descendant had decided to put aside her own duties for the moment and observe the game. While Washington was usually of the mind that one should complete their current duties before engaging in any recreational behavior, but this was both an exercise of the mind and also a chance for him to learn a little more in how espionage in the future was performed.

Since receiving the news of what exactly Major Tallmadge had done in Setauket, he had found himself slightly disappointed at the course of action his Head of Intelligence had taken. And while he was disappointed, he was also secretly pleased at what the Major had uncovered – though the exposure of the strangeness that came with the action at Setauket was not the most ideal of happenings. Tallmadge had missed the rendezvous with Arnold, and thus neither had drawn the full attention of Howe or British forces to where he had wanted it to be drawn. Instead, scrutiny had been laid upon Long Island, though that scrutiny allowed him, Washington, to open a secret line of communication.

“Don't worry, child,” Sackett said, as Washington looked up from his observations of the chess board to see his friend crinkling his eyes up in a smile that was directed to the young woman sitting and observing the game. “I cannot be easily offended, after all, I can only assume that you do have expertise in areas where I do not.”

“The egg method,” the younger Sackett began, “is inspired, but we would be better off producing invisible ink for the agents. There is a formula compound that I can give you that can be producible, but it will require us taking liberty and quite a lot of money to acquire a part of the chemicals for.”

“The black market then,” Sackett said, moving a queen's knight to a position which Washington knew it to be a feint of sorts. “There are different ways of producing invisible ink, my dear. All without drawing the unnecessary attention on such a wretched hive.”

“Yes,” she nodded, agreeing, “but given the appearance of the thirty Britannian soldiers in Major Tallmadge's report, the invisible ink that can be produced at a more nominal price may already be known. The price to produce an invisible ink from black market materials will help keep Culper and the other agents within New York safe.”

“We shall consider it at this juncture,” Washington said, moving one of his king's bishops forward to intercept Sackett's queen's knight. “Please have a list of how the formula is supposed to produced and the compounds necessary to produce it by tomorrow morning.”

“As you wish, sir,” she respectfully answered.

“Before you leave, I also do wish to ask of your opinion, Miss Sackett,” he said before the young woman could get up.

“Sir?” she questioned politely.

“Major Tallmadge... your era's Major Tallmadge,” he began, moving his queen's rook forward to take one of Sackett's queen's pawns, “Is he an honest man? I ask of this because from the report that I received from my Head of Intelligence, it seemed like he was somewhat coerced by his future counterpart into taking Setauket.”

“Benji...” she began, but hesitated for a moment as she gathered her thoughts, “I apologize. Major Tallmadge, is trustworthy. He is loyal to the cause, but his methods are rooted in his training and schooling. He had four years of military academy, sir, and he graduated at the top of his class from Westpoint. Setauket was where he had also been born, and in our time, it was burned to the ground. He may have felt a kinship with his counterpart and wanted to take the town, and I believe that the presence of Britannian soldiers gave him sufficient justification to change that small course of history. I know that he wouldn't have done anything otherwise to put him, his battalion, or others civilian or alllied military otherwise at harm without due consideration.”

“This future Culpeper Ring then, is it made up in a similar manner that governs our current Ring?” he asked.

“Not entirely, sir,” she answered. “Major Tallmadge and Samantha are cousins and grew up together, often visiting each others' homes in Long Island and Connecticut. He didn't meet Lieutenant Brewster until enrolling at Westpoint, and I did not meet any of them until I enrolled into Yale. The two other members of the Ring, Abigail Woodhull and Andrew Strong, were not recruited until Samantha and I started working at MI6. In the interest of disclosure and to ensure that there are no misconstrued biases, sir, I had already informed my General Washington of a certain... relationship that I had had.”

“Relationship?” he asked, curious enough that he turned his attention fully away from the chess game. It was the one area where he had been carefully observing the reactions of those young men who knew of the women; his manservant, a few trusted aides, and his guardsmen – to see how they treated the three women within the house. While most had been polite, there were more than quite a few bewildered looks at just how self-assured and confident they carried themselves. They were not used to women behaving in such a manner, but in the time that had passed, he had seen more than a few grow quite intrigued... and a little enamored.

“My era's Major Tallmadge and I courted while we were both attending our respective colleges. Our relationship lasted about a year-and-a-half. Both he and I have maintained a cordial working relationship since then, so please know that though my words may seem to be colored by my previous association, they are not,” she explained.

“Ah, young love,” Sackett said, leaning back in his chair, a twitch of a smile appearing on his face. “I remember being in such shoes at your age, Natalie. Spring flowers blooming, with the light laughter of such young things music to my ears... You do have my permission, Natalie, to write him of course.”

“I'm sorry... who?” the younger Sackett asked, just as Washington gave his friend a mild look.

“Hmph,” Sackett said, shaking his head slightly in exasperation before returning his attention to the game. “Blind, I tell you. All of them blind to the fairness in war and love. As much as our Major Tallmadge tries to hide it, I can see that he looks at you with great affection, and you are astute enough to define clear differences between him and his counterpart. From your words, you were hurt at the ending of your courtship with your era's Major Tallmadge, but only because forces external, such as disapproving parents or something else drove you apart. Call me a romantic at heart, but I am of the mind to seize any opportunity that presents itself... such as this.”

In the years that he had come to know Nathaniel Sackett, the man always surprised him in one way or another, but mostly through the intellect displayed when it came to his craft. Before the recruitment of a new Head of Intelligence to replace General Scott, they had never discussed analysis of persons of interest. His handing and explanation of what exactly Major Tallmadge had done with the Trenton report as reported by the Major himself had greatly intrigued Sackett. That had been the only discussion and analysis that Sackett had presented him just before he had decided that Tallmadge was to replace Scott as Head of Intelligence.

This assessment, of the personal life that involved his Head of Intelligence and this young woman from the future, was surprising in more than one way. Foremost of concern was the concern of consequences in affecting the future – specifically descendants. Whatever happened after this war or during it, it was clear to him that his Head of Intelligence would produce an heir to carry on the name until 400 years into the future. Though he had been told it was a futile effort, he had seriously considered sending out Sackett to search for the wives that would carry on the legacy of Brewster and Tallmadge (he was well aware of where Mrs. Sackett was – Sackett wrote to her often). To protect them so that they would not get caught up in the war and potentially die. But locating two women in such a enormous area was like trying to find a needle in a haystack.

Second was the mixing of business with pleasure. He did not forbid or deny any of those under his command the need to seek out pleasurable company, provided it was discreet, in moderation, and that they continued to carry out their assigned duties. This was different, in that this was his Head of Intelligence and an agent under the young man's command. No to mention that the young woman was also instructing Tallmadge in more advanced espionage techniques; thereby already blurring the chain of command.

But he would be a hypocrite if he were to protest, as he realized that the blurring of lines between subordinate and commander had already been lost. It was Tallmadge's friends, people that he cared greatly about, that were already risking their lives. His Head of Intelligence had already shown that he would go to great lengths to protect the lives of his friends in the case of taking Setauket, and it didn't matter if personal concerns were starting to be shown – they were already hip-deep in it.

“I'll allow it,” he spoke up, even though Sackett had not sought his opinion on the matter before making the decision. But his friend was not the young woman's father, and he neither Tallmadge's father. However, he was still in command of the army and his Head of Intelligence still reported to him, and thus if there were to be any external or internal distractions to his most valuable officer, he needed to know what it was. “I will allow it, provided that it does not distract from either of your duties.”

“It will not, sir,” she answered, sinking slightly to the ground in a curtsy before standing back up. “We will keep it discreet.”

 

_A/N: deleted because was not sure if Washington should be privy to his Head of Intelligence's personal life – rest of the story does not reference Washington acknowledging or having knowledge of Ben courting Natalie. Still debating whether or not this is considered canon in my story, though it does provide an excellent example of “dating within the office/chain of command” in modern days._

 

~*~*~*~

 

**Extended/Deleted Scene 2: Chapter 8**

_Morristown, New Jersey_

 

“ _Think over it while you're perusing those letters, Tallmadge,” Sackett suggested. “After all, even with Samantha's suggestion of expanding our eyes and ears in Philadelphia and its surroundings, the fairer half do have much to contribute to the war effort.”_

“ _Then you're not...?”_

“ _Angry? Hardly, boy,” Sackett scoffed. “I did give you permission after all, and if Natalie has already suggested the same be done with Miss Shippen, Jewel of Philadelphia, then I trust her judgment in the matters of her own heart. Who am I to interfere, after all, her intellect in these types of matter supersedes my own. You'd best watch yourself, Tallmadge – she's a very sharp one, that she is.”_

“ _Yes,” he said, smiling slightly. “That she is.”_

“ _That being said, I'm still watching you,” his mentor said, shaking a finger at him while seemingly looming over him even though the man was clearly shorter than he was. “You only have my permission to court her, that is it.”_

_The smile died on his face as Ben obediently nodded. Mentor or no, Sackett was quite a formidable person, especially when it came to those he held dear. “I promise to be ever respectful and honorable in my actions towards her, sir. And I thank you again for your permission.”_

“ _Hmph.”_

 

Ben pursed his lips for a moment before Sackett's rather careless wave told him that his mentor no longer had anymore words of wisdom to impart on him. As Sackett turned back to a device that had caught his interest, Ben smiled slightly and left the barn. Outside, with the sun shining brightly and the buzz of conversations from those who pitched their tent nearest was cheerful and quite lively.

He found his friends next door to the barn, in the area where the robotic horses had been tethered, but were now packed in cubes again. Brewster looked to be juggling the cubes, while Caleb was looking on quite impressed. However, as he approached, he caught the tail end of Samantha saying, “...yeah, so that's actually what caused me to sign up for MI6.”

“I still can't believe that you actually _like_ reading those novels,” Brewster said. “I mean, Ludlum's Bourne series and hell, even LeCarre's stuff were a hell of a lot better than that drivel. More realistic and definitely suited for not only their day and age, but considered timeless.”

“Hey!” Samantha protested, “I read Clancy's stuff too! I liked his Jack Ryan series. Give me some credit here, Carrie!”

“So, these 20th century spy novels were popular in your era?” Caleb asked as Brewster stopped her juggling.

“Yeah, sort of,” Samantha answered. “Some historical preservation business sponsored by Russia had dug up a collection of old films – sorry, moving paintings – from that century and was broadcasting them on an illegal stream. Most of it was about spies and the like. Made people nostalgic for those times, so the books returned to the forefront and people read a lot of them. Rather than get angry and try to ban the stuff, Britannian used it as a recruiting tool.”

“I apologize, but moving paintings?” Ben asked, baffled.

“Ah yeah,” Brewster spoke up, scratching the back of her head in embarrassment. “Totally forgot that it hasn't been invented yet. Um, lets just say that there is a way for us in the future to capture, say like a moment right now, to view it either in a format that shows movement or as a still, like a painting.”

Ben gaped, as did Caleb before suddenly asking, “Tell me that you have something like that with you?”

Samantha shook her head, giving Caleb a sympathetic smile, saying, “Sadly, no. It's considered a risk for any of us Intelligence folks to carry any sort of device that physically records these images or sounds. Everything we usually carry is to break into systems or drag data back out of systems. In the past, we used to carry recording devices that could capture images and movement, but encryption for those have been broken. Our best bet is to use the encrypted data crystals like the one I had, to transfer data now.”

“Oh,” Caleb said, looking disappointed for a moment before brightening up. “So, this James Bond fellow that you read about... he's not real, is he?”

“Oh, God no,” Samantha said with a look of horror briefly appearing on her face. “If he was, he's be pretty dead from drinking too much alcohol. The way the man drinks per novel is ludicrous.”

“And yet you still like reading that shit,” Brewster said, shaking her head. “At least you're not like your cousin, Sam. Sometimes, I question his judgment in his choice of stuff to read.”

“What, historical fiction?” Samantha asked, puzzled. “What's wrong with reading historical fiction? I mean, for fuck's sake, we're stuck in one with this time travel bullshit!”

“Well, I guess he didn't tell you that he brought his entire collection of the Horatio Hornblower novels, the Aubrey-Maturin series, _and_ the Richard Bolitho series with him to Westpoint? He should have applied to Annapolis instead!”

Ben saw Samantha smack her head against her palm in frustration as she shook her head. “Geez,” she exclaimed, looking back up. “Was he _trying_ to pick a fight? It's bad enough that there's already a sports rivalry between the Army and Navy...”

“I take it those novels aren't socially acceptable?” he asked, unsure if it was the correct question to ask, even though he was quite curious.

“Well, not really if you're one to actually join the Army but like reading books about the historical English Navy's exploits in a fictional context,” Brewster explained. “Made a lot of people question why he was at Westpoint when the Naval Academy at Annapolis may have suited him better.”

“He just likes reading about the Napoleonic War, Carrie,” Samantha said. “Speaking of which, he's probably half-giddy or filled with abject horror that the Napoleonic War might be taking place at the same time as now. I'm betting he wants to try to go to France and actually meet Bonaparte in person.”

“So what about Natalie?” Caleb asked before Ben could put the question forward. “What does she like to read?”

“For 20th century stuff? Some Russian series called Night Watch,” Samantha answered. “But she's not one to read stuff from that century too much and is usually buried in yet another perusal of The Iliad, The Odyssey, or Tolstoy's War and Peace... the former two translated into Russian. She definitely read War and Peace in its full original Russian form though... not the mistranslated English version. I think she tried to read one of Shakespeare's plays and Chaucer's stuff once and couldn't get through either of them. Old English was not exactly her first language.”

 

_A/N: was not sure where else to go with this part, and it was starting to drag on with no added substance to the plot. It did add some interesting tidbits about Benji, Samantha, Natalie, and Carrie, but did not add value to the overall scene, so this was why it was cut._

 

~*~*~*~

 

**Deleted Scene 3: Chapter 13**

_Boston, Massachusetts_

 

“Hey, there you are!”

Ben looked up from the short, affectionate letter from Natalie that he was reading, folding it up as he saw his friend approach. Placing it within his jacket's inner pocket, he pulled his cloak tighter around him as the bay breeze gusted for a moment before settling down. “Is it time already?”

“Yeah,” his friend answered, rubbing his hands together to try to get some warmth in them. “Why are you here of all places? It's bone-numbingly cold out here. I thought you had enough of that in Philadelphia.”

“Just trying to see if I can spot our resident 'sea monster', Caleb,” he answered before shrugging. “Come on, let's go. Best not keep our gracious host waiting.”

“Oooh, careful with your words, Benny-boy,” Caleb teased as the two of them left the docks along this part of the Boston Harbor, weaving their way around fish mongers, patrols, and civilians who were hurrying on the last of their errands before night was to fully settle within the city. “You're lucky Sackett ain't here to hear you call his wife 'gracious'. You and your well-read words are going to inspire jealousy.”

“Really?” he sighed, exasperated at just how much teasing his friend was inflicting upon him in recent days.

It had started when he had pointed out to Caleb that there were a few female patrons that he did not recognize lingering in the tavern, and had escalated into Caleb mercilessly teasing him about the fact that the women were there specifically to see _him_. He had originally thought the women to be spies of sort, since he had seen them sitting in the same table for the past days, worried that either Director or Major Andre had followed them to Boston. But Caleb's rather frank assessment had thrown that theory completely out.

“Tall-boy,” Caleb said, patting him on the shoulder, “Have you looked at yourself in a mirror lately?”

“No,” he said, a little irritated. “I do not mean to cause any misunderstanding with my words and actions, but frankly, this whole 'women falling at the sight of me' is a bit of a tall tale and bothersome, Caleb. I was given an assignment by Washington and I am here to carry it out. If I am polite to the residents of this city, it is only because I wish to be. So please, can you not make a mound out of nothing?”

“Okay, okay, sheesh,” his friend said, holding his hands up slightly in surrender.

Fortunately, neither had anymore to say on the matter, for they had arrived at the home of Mrs. Elizabeth Sackett, or rather, the small apothecary shop that she ran. He had been surprised when Caleb had told him about Mrs. Sackett's invitation to evening meal, and even more surprised that she ran a small shop by herself without assistance. While close to the docks because of the various shipments that such a store needed, it was still far away enough that the hustle and bustle of the docks was barely heard.

There was still light within the shop, and he could see movement inside. Opening the door, he heard the bell chime and saw Mrs. Sackett look up as both he and Caleb entered. Shutting the door, he saw a kind smile appear on Mrs. Sackett's face as she said, “Ah, you're here! Welcome!”

“Thank you for the invitation, Mrs. Sackett,” he politely answered as he removed his cloak, watching her bustle around.

“Nonsense, my dear. It's always a pleasure to host friends and acquaintances of my husband. You saved his life, and this is the least I can do to repay you. Now, if you wouldn't mind standing over there for a moment while I wrap up and close the shop for the night, sirs,” she said, gesturing for them to stand near the recently doused fireplace.

“Do you need help?” he asked, managing to keep the surprise from his face showing. He was most definitely not aware that Sackett considered them friends and he found it oddly touching that his somewhat odd and cantankerous mentor thought of them as so.

“Oh no, dearie,” she cheerfully answered, as both he and Caleb stepped out of her way as she locked the door and replaced a few items that had been on the counter top back behind and below before dusting her hands. “Now, come, boys. You must be quite hungry after a day's hard work! Margaret has probably started making the stew.”

The three of them left the shop through a back entrance, climbing up a set of steep stairs to get to the second floor of the building. Upon entering, Ben smelled a very inviting and savory scent lingering in the air and couldn't help but smile. The home that Mrs. Sackett occupied was cozy, small, and modestly furnished, and he could hear the sounds of things being prepared in the kitchen. However, there was a sense of closeness and of protectiveness that enveloped the area as Mrs. Sackett took his cloak and draped it on a wall protrusion while also taking Caleb's long coat and doing the same.

“You may leave your weapons on top of the cabinet here,” Mrs. Sackett said, gesturing to the rather tall cabinet. Ben thought he spied the barrel tip of a rifle peeking over the edge. “My son has a tendency the climb and run things around the house, so please make sure that if the cabinet is rattled, the weapons do not easily fall.”

“We will,” he reassured her as both he and Caleb removed their pistols, while he removed his sabre and scabbard belt that was slung across his shoulder. His friend had also removed the advanced rifle that he carried with him, and an assortment of small daggers. They were all piled up on the top of the cabinet, before Caleb finally removed one of Sackett's other blunderbuss experiments that had been slung across his back and placed that on the pile. Ben nearly shook his head in exasperation at just how many weapons his friend carried – it reminded him greatly of the numerous amounts of knives and daggers they had found on Natalie and Brewster when the two had first arrived.

“David! Lottie!” he heard Mrs. Sackett say, clapping her hands together as she led them to the small drawing room that was attached to the dining room. “Please come and introduce yourselves to your father's friends.”

“Coming Mother!” a girl's voice answered before the pitter-patter of feet on the floorboards was heard. A moment later, Mrs. Sackett's two children appeared from the dining room – a girl...no, young lady judging by the dress she wore with an apron covering the front, and a boy who looked up at them with eyes mixed in both fear and curiosity. The young lady seemed to be ushering in her younger brother, who was holding two painted soldier figurines.

“Lottie and David, I would like you to meet Major Benjamin Tallmadge and Lieutenant Caleb Brewster, both of the Continental Army and friends of your father,” Mrs. Sackett said, gesturing to them. “Major and Lieutenant, these are my children, Catherine Charlotte and Nathaniel David. Lottie is fifteen and little David here is nine, but they are both attending the school down near Faneuil Hall.” The young lady dipped slightly, before realizing that her brother was not showing proper manners and gently smacked on on the shoulder while coloring slightly.

“It's a pleasure to meet your acquaintances,” he said, smiling as he heard Caleb chuckle at the young boy's antics.

“Now, off you two,” Mrs. Sackett said, turning her children around and patted them on their backs. “Go set the table while I go help Margaret.” To him and Caleb, he heard her say, “Please make yourselves at home. We shan't be long in setting out the meal.”

Bustling off, as Ben caught little David glancing back at them, wide-eyed and curious, before he was ushered into the dining room by his sister, he could not help but shake his head slightly. The boy definitely had Sackett's mannerisms, especially with the sometimes shrewd but owlish look that he occasionally saw within his mentor's eyes. He could hear the clanking of a pot in the kitchen, along with the placement of bowls and utensils in the dining room. Though he wanted to help, he knew from back when he mother had still been alive, she had made sure that no one entered the kitchen whenever she was just about to finish cooking the meal. Judging from the size of the shop and house that stood on top of it, he could only imagine that the kitchen was also much too small for several grown people to be loitering about in.

While quite cozy-looking, a rather large and tall bookshelf caught his attention, and he walked over to it. While he had been at Yale, he had learned that a family could be learned much about from just what books they carried in their home. Of course, there were several copies of the Bible in various states from pristine to tattered, central on the Sackett family's shelf. However, there were more than quite a few Latin literature gracing the shelves, along with several foreign titles that he could only guess at for the language. Bound works of Shakespeare also graced the shelf, but it was one of the rows near the bottom of the shelf that piqued his curiosity.

Bound pieces of parchment, some creased with actual hardback spines, and others just with twine, sat neat in a row. A few of the notebooks that had actual hardback spines had letters and numbers written upon it, and he didn't recognized the handwriting to be Sackett's penmanship. However, the encoding that was on the spines was most definitely something that looked like it belonged to Sackett – it was lightly encrypted, but formulated in the same manner that his mentor had had him learn last year. While it was easy for him to mentally decrypt it as he looked at the labeled spines for most of them were the month and year, followed by 'Journal', he did wonder why such items were sitting out on the shelf in the open?

“Major Tallmadge and Lieutenant Brewster, the evening meal is ready, sirs,” a familiar and unexpected voice said from the threshold, causing the smile that had been on Ben's face to disappear.

“Miss Shippen,” he managed to say in as neutral of a tone as possible without giving away his surprise as he turned and stood back up. Gone were the jewels and finery that he had long associated with the richest, eligible woman in Philadelphia. Instead, she was wearing a plain dark working dress, and had her hair pinned up into a plain, unflattering style. While still beautiful-looking, the touch of color on her face that made her look like an exquisite jewel last he remembered seeing her at her father's home, was gone.

“Ah, yeah, sorry Benny-boy,” Caleb said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Forgot to tell you. She's the governess for the children.”

“Oh,” he managed to say, as the edges of his lips quirked up in a humorless smile. That answered the question of who exactly 'Margaret' was. “I'm quite glad that you have managed to find employment, Miss Shippen. I do hope life in Boston is treating you well.”

“It is, sir,” she quietly answered, almost afraid to look him directly in the eye as Lottie and David peered out from behind her.

“Did you say that evening meal was ready?” he asked, not wanting to subject anyone else in the house to the unbridled words of hostility he wanted to say to Shippen. However, seeing her in a state such as this, with her home lost, her father under arrest, and her reputation ruined, he could not bring himself to feel as much anger towards her as he wanted to. She was, as Sackett had aptly put it just before he left for Boston, 'completely defanged – a she-wolf with no teeth' and no longer a threat.

“All right! I'm starving!” Caleb interrupted whatever else she was about to say, striding forward and breaking the tension that seemed to have hung around the air.

He gave a wordless nod towards Shippen as he followed his friend. There was a most curious of looks on Lottie's face as she slipped back towards the dining room, dragging her brother with her. As the family, Ben, and Caleb arranged themselves around the table, with the pot of stew and two loaves of bread on either end, Ben helped Mrs. Sackett into her chair before taking his own seat. There was silence around the table for a few minutes as portions were handed out and the clinking of utensils was heard.

“So, how was school today?” Mrs. Sackett asked, breaking the silence.

“Good,” Lottie answered. “Mr. James finally saw Thomas hurting those caterpillars in their cocoons and gave him five with the cane.”

“Is that so?” Mrs. Sackett asked, sounding quite nonchalant. “Hmph.”

“Lottie got her notebook taken away again, mother,” David quietly spoke up in between his slurping of the stew.

“David!” the young lady hissed.

“Lottie!” Mrs. Sackett exclaimed at the same time, as Ben saw her shake her head in frustration. “You know what I told you about bringing those notebooks to school.”

“I got it back, mother,” Lottie answered, looking quite indignant. “There wasn't anything of importance in that notebook... just a bit of fun!”

“Which can be misconstrued to be spying, Lottie!” Mrs. Sackett said before taking a deep breath. In a quieter tone, she said, “Please, Lottie, your skills at encryption are never supposed to be taken lightly...”

“Why, Mother? Why not? If Father--”

“Pardon me, but those notebooks in the drawing room,” he gently interrupted, realizing that all those lightly encrypted passages and journal entries he had seen were not by Mrs. Sackett's hand, but of another, “were those all written by you, Miss Lottie?”

“Yes,” the young lady answered, her exasperation and anger towards her mother melting instantly as she turned her attention to him. “Father taught me and let me help him and Mother encrypt our ledgers while we were living in England. I suppose that it spilled out into my journal writing.”

“No, no,” he answered, “it's admirable. Had I known the same as you do now, I would have done the same to my personal journals, after all, there are passages that we all write from the heart that the world does not need to know.”

“T-thank you,” Lottie stuttered slightly, coloring at the praise.

“That being said,” he continued, “your Mother is right. Bringing any sort of encrypted notebook, however benign, can cause people to perceive you in the wrong light. Your father is a Patriot, through and through, and his reputation is your reputation, as is yours to his. I think it would make him disappointed to see it shone in a different light all together.”

“I...see, sir,” she quietly answered, looking crestfallen and ashamed. “Mother, if I may be excused?”

“Not until you finish your stew and tell me how you got your notebook back. I will have no one in this family wasting a perfectly good meal,” Mrs. Sackett huffed.

“I stole it,” David softly answered, eliciting a chortled laughter from Caleb.

“Good on you, for helping your sister, you little rascal,” Caleb said in between laughter, causing the boy to beam while Ben saw Mrs. Sackett shake her head in exasperation, as if giving up.

There was a sudden knock on the back door that silenced Caleb's laughter as Ben saw a concerned expression appear on Mrs. Sackett's face. He glanced over towards Shippen at the same time Mrs. Sackett did, and saw the young woman shake her head. “Please, stay and continue to eat,” Mrs. Sackett said in a pleasant tone while getting up and placing her napkin on the chair. “I will see who it is.”

Ben would have returned to his meal, had it not been for the slight crinkling of Shippen's eyes in concern as the young woman watched Mrs. Sackett leave. While he was sure that given the nature of the Sackett family, Mr. Sackett and his wife would not have told their children about what exactly Shippen had done to warrant her coming to Boston. Ever since that incident in Philadelphia, Ben had been a little more careful in observing his surroundings, and even as Mrs. Sackett bustled into the kitchen to answer the back door, he hesitated in picking up his spoon again – did Peggy Shippen know of those who called so late at night?

“Miss Shippen,” he said instead, catching the young woman's eyes, “Is it normal for people to be calling upon Mrs. Sackett so late at night?”

“There are times that has happened before, Major,” Shippen answered in what Ben could only decide as a very cautious tone. “In an emergency, doctors and the like have sought her medicines that she sells in her store below...”

The young woman stopped speaking as soon as a low rumble of a man's voice could be heard but was cut off by the sharp voice of Mrs. Sackett saying, “Absolutely not! Who do you think you are, coming in here and disturbing the peace! We don't need your so-called 'protection'!”

There was a few more muffled words, but Ben was already in the midst of pushing his chair back, glancing over towards Caleb who was doing the same thing, saying in a low tone, “Caleb, you know what to do.”

“Got it, Benny-boy,” his friend answered, quietly but quickly hurrying towards the small foyer where they had left their weapons.

“Miss Shippen,” he stated, looking over towards the young woman who had also half-risen from her seat, trying to beckon her two charges over. She gave a fearful nod, as he strode into the kitchen with as much confidence he could muster, continuing to hear Mrs. Sackett's protests.

The back door was open, but far be it that Mrs. Sackett had control over the door anymore; there were at least two men, dressed in finery he did not expect, dark clothed and blended in with the cold night. The heat from the kitchen was rapidly escaping through the open door that one of the two men leaned upon, and his entrance into the place caused the two men to pause as he drew their attention from her.

“May I help you?” he politely asked, walking up so that he stood just a little in front of Mrs. Sackett, close enough to the first man who had a dark, finely stitched wool cloak around him, to take a step back. The other man had an oilskin cloak draped upon him, but far be it that the oilskin was creating a foul smell – there was barely any scent except that of tobacco lingering upon him and his companion.

“Oh, you a boarder?” the first gentleman asked. “Didn't think that the Missus here was in dire straits to allow one of you toy soldiers under her roof. If that's the case, then the fee's just gone up for you, Mrs. Sackett--”

“Perhaps you should take your dealings elsewhere, gentlemen,” he interrupted. “She does not care for whatever services you are offering, and neither is this a medical emergency. If you have business with this apothecary, please come back in the morning.”

“Stay out of this, _boy_ ,” the other man growled. “We got people up in higher places than you can imagine, if you know what's good for you.”

Ben's eyes narrowed slightly at the implied threat that was attached to those words. He could only assume that the men meant high-society civilians, but from their words, he also derived the fact that there was a form of corruption within the city – exploitation by civilians with the means to profit from the war. The black market was one such necessity that no one wanted to readily admit to engaging in, but this... this was unacceptable. There were men and boys fighting for their lives and for their freedom against the British, and yet the depravity of the human nature knew no bounds.

“There are plenty of militiamen and Continental garrison forces within the city, gentlemen,” he said, giving them a thin smile. “I believe that Mrs. Sackett here has all the protection she needs. Now, if you would please leave. Goodnight, sirs.”

The unmistakable cock of two hammers being pulled back behind him and Mrs. Sackett told him all that he needed to know. Caleb was standing behind them, and even without turning, he could imagine his friend's stance was quite cocky and confident, coupled with two pistols pointed straight at the two men.

“You think you got those poor sods playing soldier backing you up, _boy_?” the first man with the woolen cloak taunted. “Then you've got another thing coming for you!” Growling to his companion, he said, “Come on!”

Without another word, both of the men turned and left, their boots clattering upon the wooden steps that carried them to the ground. Ben poked his head out and watched their dark shadows disappear into the inky night before returning to the home and closed the door tightly. As he heard Caleb return the pistols to half-cock, he found Mrs. Sackett leaning against the cupboard, shaking her head. However, she did not look distressed and instead, looked quite frustrated.

“The work of a Good Samaritan is never rewarded, is it, Major Tallmadge?” Mrs. Sackett bitterly said, giving him a brief, humorless smile. “I thank you for defending me and my family, but I am afraid that you have gotten yourself involved in something that you really should not have.”

 

_A/N: by this time, it was turning into a massive runaway scene that had no end, and thus it was cut off right here and deleted. This may or may not be considered story canon – elements of it may be used in the Season 3 parallel since parts of it takes place in Boston. Or I might just spin off a side-story to this entire deleted scene about Ben and Caleb's adventures (misadventures) in Boston with the early days of the mob during Ben's exile._

 

~*~*~*~

 

**Deleted Scene 4: Chapter 13**

_Morristown, New Jersey_

 

“He says, 'I do not see how these exercises that this _Lieutenant_ has been drilling them each afternoon is beneficial', sir,” Lafayette murmured as Washington nodded to the words that von Stuben had stated via the translation that the young noble was providing.

They were standing a bit ways away from the open field within the camp that Brewster had opted to conduct her drilling of the men. While most of those she drilled were of the 2nd Continental Light Dragoons, there were some that were of other units. He had not pressed the other commanders to send their own men for such training that Brewster provided, and it was mostly because of what the dragoon unit had faced in the past year that almost all of them had volunteered for the training. Curious few from other units had joined them in recent days, though many of those curious few did not stay, owing entirely to the fact that a woman of all people was training and drilling them.

“I must protest, sir,” Hamilton spoke up. “The men are getting stronger with the type of repetitive drills that Lieutenant Brewster is putting them through. I have also observed that they are faster in reacting to various situations in camp.”

As Lafayette translated Hamilton's words, Washington asked his aide, “Such as?”

“Um... fights, sir,” Hamilton answered, hanging his head slightly in shame.

“I see,” he murmured, returning his attention back to the field as he saw the men line up into two columns at one end. He would have to properly admonish his aide later for participating in such a dealing instead of breaking up such things within the camp. He did not need the men to further injure themselves or consign themselves to the surgeon's tent to alleviate whatever arguments they had between themselves. It was already enough that they were losing men to dysentery and other illnesses – he did not need to lose men to stupidity.

He saw Brewster lay out a few cubes, pressing them as she went along the length of the field. However, what sprung up was not the mechanical horses that frightened most of the men so, but things all together quite different. Sail rigging coated in metal chains, and ditches that had sharp-looking objects strung across them, along with several structures that looked like the sloped roofs of barns littered the field. There were also what looked to be rigging and rope hanging off branches that were designed to be swung across, and columns that looked like they could be climbed to platforms that spanned at least the height of the house behind him.

“Oh, so that's the training course she was talking about,” Hamilton said with a touch of glee in his tone. “Most impressive.”

Brewster's apparent 'training course' as his aide had called it, was attracting more than the curious few who were already watching the drills she put them through. Washington saw several of officers, including Lee come out of their tents, drawn by the murmurs that floated around the camp. He saw the young lieutenant address those at the head of the column before demonstrating what was to be done at each area of the obstacle that blocked her way through.

The swiftness and ease in which she displayed in getting through each obstacle reminded him of how the natives of the land fought. She was scrabbling over the barn-like obstacles while keeping her profile low. In her crawling under the sharp ship cable-like object that forced her into a ditch, he could see that her head was not bobbing up and down as he would think would happen.

“She moves like those Indian fighters,” he heard Arnold speak up as he heard his friend hobble up next to him.

“Indeed,” he answered as she continued through the training course until a few minutes later, she was finished and hurried back to the waiting men.

“And why should she not, sir?” Hamilton spoke up. “The natives pushed the British back quite a few times during the Seven-Years War. We should be adopting their ways of fighting, forging alliances with them so that they do not fall to British influence.”

“Gentlemen,” he intervened before Arnold could counter Hamilton's arguments. He had heard enough variations of such arguments that he did not want to hear anymore. “Let us see how our men will do in this challenge.”

 

_A/N: ultimately deleted because I did not envision the Battle of Monmouth to be an all-out guerrilla warfare situation. May use the training and/or sequence in a future battle where there will be an all-out assault that does not involve formations, so consider this scene not quite story canon yet._

 

~*~*~*~

 

**Alternate Scene 1: Chapter 15**

_Monmouth, New Jersey_

 

_For all the strange sounds that the advanced weapons produced, there was a moment of pure silence that followed the arrival of a host of the US Army. It was in that silence that the strangest of sounds filled the air, sounding at first like a rather mistuned horn being played by an angry swarm of bees before escalating in volume just as the enormous red bolt was fired. But at the moment when the combined Gatling cannon was fired, a low hum that tickled teeth started up and seemingly wailed into a high-pitched tone answered the Britannian weapon._

_Pzztwoooot!_

 

“Fuck yeah, General Washington! Front row seats to the best show in town! Take that you fucking Britannian tea-wankers!” Caleb heard a young soldier say as he and the others blinked and rubbed their eyes, still in disbelief as to what exactly they were seeing.

The sudden appearance of a rather terrifying mass of metallic black riders, followed by the explosion that sent a gust of wind blowing back at them with enough force to dislodge several canvas canopies that had been draped over certain areas of the trenches. Men and women on the front edge had also stumbled back, as a storm of dirt and grass blew into the ditches, partially filling them. However, as sudden as it had come, it was gone, leaving the smell of something burning in the air.

He glanced over at the young soldier who had crawled out of the mound of dirt that she had been seemingly buried under in, having been thrown back from her manning of the laser Gatling. She was clutching something close to her, and as she shook the dirt off of herself, she held up her prize, saying, “Yeah! Still good! Sucks for you, Britannia! My popcorn survived your attempt to produce an apocalypse!”

Though the item that contained it was clear enough that he still could not believe that they in the future, had the capability to produce such an item, what was inside of the container looked quite strange. It looked like some type of grain, small and pale-yellow in color that kind of looked like a head of a cabbage. He saw the soldier open the container and flip over her bowl-shaped helmet before pouring the contents of the container into her helmet. She then hopped up on the back lip of the trench and started munching on the food.

“Ah, popcorn!” he heard Carrie say and saw her tromp over across the small mounds and pass him by. “May I have some, Hart?” she asked.

Caleb saw the young soldier purse her lips for a second, before brightly saying, “Sure!”

Curious, Caleb also came over and took a look at the item of food as he saw his counterpart lightly throw a few of the grains into her mouth, grinning as she chewed it. “Want some?” she asked.

“It's not going to poison you...I think,” Hart cheerfully said, holding the helmet forward slightly.

“Well, can't be as bad as that time in the Artic sea where the boys made me drink a cup of fresh whale blood to purge supposed bad luck,” he said, shrugging slightly before picking up a small piece. Closing his eyes, he popped it into his mouth, and the grain immediately melted slightly against the roof of its mouth, tasting sweet and salty at the same time. He chewed slightly, not quite sure what to make of what was left of the texture before swallowing it.

“Well?” Carried asked as he opened his eyes and found Hart and her staring at him with an expectant look.

“It's... interesting,” he said, really not sure what to make of it. “I don't know how it could fill someone though. Seems too light.”

“Not supposed to, el-tee,” Hart said, taking a handful and shoving it into her mouth, chewing and swallowing before continuing to say, “it's usually eaten as a snack of sorts, a small light meal while watching entertainments--”

The pounding of hooves on the ground close to them caused her to pause and them to turn towards the source of the sound. Moments later, the robotic horse of General Tallmadge came pounding through and leapt over the trenches, heading out to the field.

“Senpai,” he heard Carrie softly say, though the tone of her voice was a cross between amused and sarcastic.

“What?” he questioned.

“Oh,” Hart said, laughing slightly. “Now the show really starts. I'm just going to sit back and enjoy the this.”

“Senpai... it's Japanese...erm, its another language from the Far East,” Carrie spoke up, leaning back against the trench wall, folding her hands across as she stared out towards the still dirt-and-smoke covered field that was clearing up with the wind and rain starting again. “Senpai is a way of addressing an elder in that language. I'm just saying what's probably going through Benji's head – our Washington has arrived and he's going out to meet her.”

“So its an address of respect?” he asked.

“Um... yes and no,” she explained. “I'm just making fun of him without him knowing it. You wouldn't believe how devoted Benji is to our Lieutenant General Washington. I mean, I've seen people admire their commanders, but Benji... wow. Remember that fight that Ben got into with Bradford last year over that stupid pamphlet?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah... Benji has the same kind of loyalty to our Washington that Ben has to your Washington... except that it's a little more _intense_. He'd fall on his sword for her if she asked it of him – and wouldn't even question the request.” She pointed towards where Tallmadge was already approaching the mass and Caleb thought he saw two riders gallop out to meet him at least a part of the way. “See, I can even narrate what's probably going on: Senpai, you're alive! Yes, I am. I've missed you so much, senpai! Well, we all though you were dead too, Major. I got brevetted to Brigadier General, ma'am... by General Lee via Commander Creighton and I don't want the position. I see, but you're going to have to keep the position. May I hug you, senpai?”

The snorted laughter of Hart caused Carrie to stop her strange narration in different voices that he could only imagine mimicked Tallmadge and Lieutenant General Washington. “You need to make it more sultry, el-tee,” Hart said. “Our commander practically has a crush on her. Haven't you ever seen the lovey-dovey eyes that he gets whenever she's around?”

“Uh...” Caleb began, unsure as to whether or not Hart was joking, for her expression and her words did not match the tone and intent. Fortunately, he was saved from stewing over the potential not-revelation or grand joke if it were to be, when he saw, out of the corner of his eyes, someone headed towards the horses that had been tied to a low bushel-stump.

“Heya Ben,” he said, turning and climbing out of the ditch...

 

_A/N: and so the rest of the scene goes nearly the same as what is written in Ben's POV. Was playing around with the dynamics, so it is considered story canon in the story that Major/Brig. Gen. Benji Tallmadge does legitimately have a crush on his Lt. Gen. Washington. It makes his sacrifice in Chapter 16 all the more poetic. *evil laughter*_

 

~*~*~*~

 

**Alternate Scene 2: Chapter 15/16**

_Unknown Location_

 

_Alternate scene on a different character's departure from the story instead of Brig. Gen. Tallmadge's departure as planned and written. Would have happened had the assassination plot of Washington not been written. Not considered story canon._

 

“You promised,” Natalie stated, though Ben could clearly hear the hurt and betrayal within those two words. However, before Lieutenant General Washington or anyone else in the room for the matter could speak up, she reached within her uniform and pulled out the chain necklace that contained her identification tags. She yanked at it, breaking the chain before tossing it onto the table. It skittered across the maps for a moment before coming to rest near the center of the table. Without another word, she abruptly turned and left.

Ben glanced over towards his commander in alarm, but Washington's face remained expressionless while his commander's counterpart had merely reached towards the identification tags and picked it up. No one in the room moved, and just as he was about to, for though he did not know what exactly had happened between Natalie and her commander, her actions clearly indicated that she had quit. He took a step back to leave, but the rapid footsteps of Mikhail Sackett stepping away from his commander over took his actions. Just as the man brushed past both him and his counterpart, he saw his counterpart reach out and forcibly grab the man by the arm.

“Hurt her, and I'll kill you,” he heard his counterpart state not in a whisper but in a tone loud enough for everyone in the briefing to hear, “ally or not.”

How Ben managed to keep himself from stepping away in horror and surprise at such an openly stated threat as he saw Sackett shake his arm out of Tallmadge's grip, he didn't know. What he did know as the man stalked away from the briefing, was that his commander had not changed his expression at all, and that Lieutenant General Washington's expression matched that of his commander.

However, he could see the other two agents of the Lieutenant General's employ openly frowning, through Anatoly Volkov was doing more than just frowning – the man was openly glaring at both him and his counterpart. Ben fearlessly met that glare, for even if he did not understand the full circumstances of what just happened, whatever promise that had been enacted between Natalie and her commander had been broken. That had most likely cost all of them a valuable intelligence agent.

 

_A/N: had the scene continued, Natalie subsequently leaves, only saying goodbye to Ben and no one else. She heads up to Boston and stays with her ancestor family. We find out from Benji in a conversation with Ben, that she was recruited and trained as a Russian Secret Service agent at the age of 15 and fled to the US at 17 to escape that life – hence her enrollment into Yale University. We also find out about the promise that Lt. Gen. Washington had made with her – to never draft her family into the spy business in exchange for her participation in the Culpeper Ring. Lt. Gen. Washington broke that promise when Natalie and the others disappeared in 2177. Despite trying to find out where she has departed to, Nathaniel Sackett does not tell Ben where she is and feigns ignorance – wanting to give her some peace in her life._

 

~*~*~*~

 

**Alternate Scene 3: Chapter 16**

_Philadelphia, Pennsylvania_

 

“You...you're a goooood brother...”

“That's it Sam, just one foot forward at a time,” Ben heard Natalie say as both of them prodded the young woman forward via their arms draped around her shoulders, half carrying her through the streets of Philadelphia. As Samantha continued to prattle nonsensical words, he glanced over, catching Natalie's eyes as she too, looked over at him with a sympathetic smile.

It had not meant to end up like this, where the two of them were half-dragging a clearly drunk Samantha back to the house. What had started out as a night to celebrate, or in Ben's case, to at least get tipsy enough so that he could attempt to purge the memories of what had happened at Haddonfield, had ended up like this. Samantha had gotten herself quite drunk and had nearly started three bar fights, forcing him and the others to drag her out before the fights could begin in earnest.

Revelers were still out in the streets, even though it was nearing midnight, but it was the scraping of two other pairs of feet behind him, Natalie, and Samantha, along with the slurred complaints of Caleb – also quite drunk for more cheerful reasons than Samantha's – that told him at least the other two were keeping up with them. They passed by cheering people, people that paid them no heed, and soldiers who celebrated their good fortune by chasing the skirts of those who worked the brothels. Ben wished that he could feel as happy as the rest of them, but he couldn't bring himself to – and the constant reminder of what had happened at Haddonfield was tucked within his jacket's inner pocket.

“Oh look, they're making those lovey-dovey eyes at each other...” he heard Caleb say, his words slurring quite considerably as they devolved into drunken giggles.

“Don't...go la-la-ing... off,” Samantha drunkenly answered as Ben glanced further behind to see Brewster rolling her eyes at her ancestor's words before hefting Caleb up even more to get him to continue to walk. He looked back over towards Natalie who had an exasperated look upon her face. Before he could say something to her, Samantha spoke up again, “and speaking of la-la... did ya know that I was... married?”

“I'm sure you were, Sam,” Natalie answered in what Ben could only decipher as an extremely patient tone that was usually reserved for those whom really did not deserve such a gracious invitation. “Come on...”

“Honestly... I... was,” Samantha insisted, as the silly grin on her face drooped into a frown. “Two...months... it was...”

“Must've not been a good screw for you if he couldn't have kept ya happy,” Caleb drunkenly spoke up. “I would've...”

“Caleb!” Ben sharply said, pausing and causing the rest of them to stop walking as he glared at his friend. “Christ, I hope you do not remember what you said tomorrow morning,” he muttered more to himself than to the others, really not caring that he had used the Lord's name in vain.

He heard Samantha giggle, but it was not of a drunk and more of someone who was grappling with sadness as she said, “Misery... loves company... as did I... love him for those... two months... my dear...dear Jonathan... Simcoe.”

The raucous laughter of Caleb would have made the entire confession quite absurd, had it not been for Samantha's next actions, which was to burst out into tears. She abruptly tried to sink into the ground, as Natalie reacted faster than Ben could, and caught her before she could fully collapse. “I don't think she's lying,” he heard Natalie say as both he and she readjusted Samantha so that she was again, draped across their shoulders.

The clopping of hooves along the streets interrupted whatever he was about to say as a rider called out, “Major Tallmadge!”

“Yes, corporal?” he said as the horseman stopped before them.

“General Washington has requested the presence of you and your compatriots here.”

 

_A/N: and the rest of the scene plays out in a similar vein to the end of Chapter 16, albeit with a drunk Samantha and Caleb in the scene. Also, yeah, this is a not-so-subtle hint on various random 'ships that the fandom ships. Gender-flipped and mixed with a blender of course. Definitely not story canon._

 

~*~*~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oddly enough, because of re-reading Deleted Scene #3, I now want to write a spin-off story (instead of the omake stuff I had planned to write) about the shenanigans that Ben and Caleb get up into during their time in Boston.


	18. Extras: Boston, Not Legal (Pt. 1)

**Extras: Boston, Not Legal (Pt. 1)**

 

_Previously, on TURN: One Hundred and Eighty..._

 

The jaunty tune that Caleb whistled as he walked down the crowded, muddy streets of Boston was unfamiliar to any who heard it while he passed them by, but to him, it reminded him of how much his life and circumstances had changed in just over a year. There were still only thirteen states in the declared independence of the United States of America, but he hoped that they would still be able to reach fifty... that is if they won the war for their freedom.

As he rounded the sharp bend in the street, tipping his hat in a greeting along with flashing a smile towards some lovely ladies who had just exited a tailor's store, he saw the grime-covered sign of the Green Dragon Inn swinging lightly with the cold sea breeze just ahead. A larger smile worked its way up his lips as his whistling died and he hurried towards the Inn. It was definitely a home-away-sweet-home for him here in the city.

Initially, both he and Ben had been quartered among the garrisoned army within the city at some dingy (in his opinion) place just north of the Commons. However, due to his extensive stays at the Green Dragon Inn whenever the whaling ship he sailed with back in the day made its port-of-call here, he had a good relation with the owners of the Inn. Thus he had moved both of them to one of the Inn's quarters for a discounted fee that was more than covered by their own personal funds. He was not going to stay in his favorite city in a God-forsaken pit, not while he had the monetary means to sleep under a solid roof and a warm bed.

Entering the Inn, he removed his hat as the raucous sounds of a rather busy and cheerfully lively first floor assaulted his ears. Drinking challenges were being had in at a few tables, while at least one was occupied by men playing a rather mean game of cards. As his eyes strayed over towards the bar, he saw the proprietor, a rather curvy, self-assured woman with dark but greying hair tied up in a simple style, wearing a faded red patterned dress that had certainly seen better days than being doused by ale and vomit from patrons with an apron tied around her waist, wave at him. Her husband was busy sending orders of ale pints down the counter top while hooking a pitcher of wine to his arm, ready to venture out into the open area to refill those at the tables. Wondering what she wanted, he sauntered over, pausing only a moment to flatten himself against the wall to avoid barreling into a drunken patron who seemed to be dancing around to his own music playing in his head.

As soon as he got to the bar, he Leaning against the counter, asking, “Something I can do for you, Mrs. Freeman?”

“Ah, where's your handsome friend, Brewster? That young Tallmadge boy?”

Caleb gave a short bark of laughter before saying, “Eh, Ben's still at the main garrison officers' house talking with the commander.”

A disappointed look flitted across her face for a moment, amusing him even further before it quickly disappeared with her saying, “Well, there are two women waiting to speak with you upstairs, dearie. They're at the furthest corner of the floor to the right, and I've already shoo'ed away any patrons that might bother them. Mother and daughter, I think. The daughter is a very lovely-looking little bird that I just know you'll like.”

“Mother and daughter, eh? Still trying to find me a wife?” he asked, slightly puzzled for he didn't know any mother-daughter pairs who would come to look for him. “Looking for me specifically or for Benny?”

“You're my best customer, Brewster. I just want the best for you. And it's both of you they're looking for to talk to,” she answered. “But since you're here, turn on that saucy and salty charm of yours and win that young woman's heart. Maybe that'll teach the young Tallmadge boy to stop playing with all the young women's hearts who float in and out of my husband's ratty old tavern... especially with his polite 'good mornings or evenings' and 'pardon me's'.”

“But I thought you liked them coming in and out, Mrs. Freeman,” he said, adopting a jesting tone before giving her a wide grin as she glared at him darkly.

“Gordon does,” she answered, throwing an annoyed look towards her husband who was currently navigating around a few chairs and rowdy revelers to deliver his pitcher of wine to a table. “They come in and can't even finish a pint before feeling faint. Sure they bring more men into the tavern, but they're merely there like bees to honey. And we both know who the honey is.”

“Aw, you wound me, Mrs. Freeman,” he said, affecting a mocking looking of horror.

“I'll wound you even more if you don't get up there and win that young woman's heart!” she answered, grabbing a wooden ladle and waving it a bit threateningly. He knew that she meant no harm with it as she continued to say, “Now get, you!”

“Thank you, Mrs. Freeman,” he said as he knuckled his forehead in a half-mocking salute before sauntering away. As he climbed the stairs to get to the quieter second floor, the grin stayed on his face. She knew that he knew the only reason why she was irritated by the rather pretty-looking ladies who constantly flitted in and out of the tavern-inn was because she too somewhat fancied Ben.

Caleb was not the jealous type, and in fact, he found it downright hilarious to see that despite all that had happened, wherever Ben went, a flock of young women seemed to follow. His best friend seemed either knowingly oblivious to that point or was actually oblivious. There was a high point in the matter though – the Inn suddenly became a little more respectable with the patrons that frequented and stayed in the place. If there was a definite positive to all of this, it was the food had become significantly better in recent days because of the quality and amount that Mr. and Mrs. Freeman were able to afford.

Still, it was curious that a mother-daughter pair had specifically asked for both him and Ben, and as he looked around the second floor, there were a few patrons sitting about, quietly talking, but more than a few were shooting furtive looks to the farthest corner on the right side of the tavern. Caleb's eyes eventually settled there too, and who he saw sitting at the table made him uneasy and slightly angry at the same time.

It was not the older woman, Mrs. Elizabeth Sackett, that was causing those feelings, but the younger one, Miss Margaret “Peggy” Shippen of Philadelphia.

His grin disappeared as he approached, wondering how and why the two were here. If Sackett's wife was here in Boston, did that mean that Samantha and Natalie had gotten better or God-forbid, died from whatever strange affliction that they had found the two in at Judge Hancock's house? His unease started to overwhelm the anger as he sat down and forced himself to be as pleasant as possible, given the circumstances. “Howdy,” he said in as casual of a tone as he could. “Mrs. Freeman told me that you wanted to talk to Ben and me?”

“Is he not here?” Mrs. Sackett asked.

“He's still busy with his duties,” he answered, knowing that she was asking about Ben. He would be damned if he gave anything detailed away in the presence of the Shippen girl, for even though she was mighty beautiful and very pleasing to look at, even in such a plain dress and simplistic cloak draped around her soft shoulders, he did not trust her.

She had been remorseful and told them everything that had happened and how she came to be in the service of Director Andre that was more like a hostage situation than servitude, but he was angry at how she had manipulated Ben and toyed with him in her letters. That and also how she had, with Andre's guidance, pieced together orders in both letters that had been sent to General Arnold and Ben for the still-unknown assassin or assassins within the camp.

“Ah, well then,” Mrs. Sackett briskly answered, fishing out two letters. “Please give this one to the Major, and this other one is for you, Lieutenant.”

“You're the last person I expect to see as a courier, Mrs. Sackett,” he said, accepting the letters. “But thanks.”

“You're very welcome, Lieutenant,” she answered. “As for the two women that had been under my care, fear not for they have not passed to be with our Lord and Savior. They have recovered and I'm sure that you'll find details of what has happened since yours and the Major's departure in those letters.”

“Will you be returning to Morristown soon?” he asked after a moment, and despite himself, he could feel the grin return to his face.

Good news was always something that he liked presenting to Ben. The fact that the two women whom he knew that Ben had grown quite fond of, especially if he read his friend correctly that his fondness for Natalie was turning or had turned towards more amorous affections, had recovered was welcomed news. In the past weeks since they had arrived at Boston, he had seen his friend throw himself into the assignment that Washington had given him. It was a way of coping with all that had happened at Philadelphia and at Judge Hancock's house, and despite his attempts to cheer Ben up, even his attempts at jests had fallen quite flat.

“No,” Mrs. Sackett answered, shaking her head slightly. “My duties are to my children and the apothecary shop I run here now, near Faneuil Hall. General Washington has kindly allowed me to bring Miss Shippen here back here to employ her as a governess for my children.”

“Oh,” he said, glancing over towards Shippen, who did not meet his eyes and merely stared at a worn spot on the table. He looked back to Mrs. Sackett and asked, “Will you be needing another blunderbuss or pistol? I have one that I can spare.”

“Thank you for the kind offer, but I do not,” she answered, withdrawing the double-barreled blunderbuss she had carried with her and place it on the table for a moment. “I still have the gift you have given me. And besides, Lieutenant, Boston is a free and protected city. I do not think that the British or Britannia for the matter, would be foolish enough to invade us... they would not survive what is lurking in our harbor.”

“Ah, yeah,” he said after a moment, nodding in understanding, “I had forgotten about our sea monster at the bottom of Boston Harbor.”

To him, it sounded like a perfectly normal statement, but to anyone else passing by and happened to overhear it, they would only attribute it to the ale and a very addled mind. Caleb sometimes wondered what had become of his life, and to say something like that and consider it normal sometimes still astonished him. But such was life, and this war for their freedom had taken a very strange turn indeed.

* * *

_Dusk, a couple of days later..._

 

“Hey, there you are!”

Ben looked up from the short, affectionate letter from Natalie that he was reading, folding it up as he saw his friend approach. Placing it within his jacket's inner pocket, he pulled his cloak tighter around him as the bay breeze gusted for a moment before settling down. “Is it time already?”

“Yeah,” his friend answered, rubbing his hands together to try to get some warmth in them. “Why are you here of all places? It's bone-numbingly cold out here. I thought you had enough of that in Philadelphia.”

“Just trying to see if I can spot our resident 'sea monster', Caleb,” he answered before shrugging. “Come on, let's go. Best not keep our gracious host waiting.”

“Oooh, careful with your words, Benny-boy,” Caleb teased as the two of them left the docks along this part of the Boston Harbor, weaving their way around fish mongers, patrols, and civilians who were hurrying on the last of their errands before night was to fully settle within the city. “You're lucky Sackett ain't here to hear you call his wife 'gracious'. You and your well-read words are going to inspire jealousy.”

“Really?” he sighed, exasperated at just how much teasing his friend was inflicting upon him in recent days.

It had started when he had pointed out to Caleb that there were a few female patrons that he did not recognize lingering in the tavern, and had escalated into Caleb mercilessly teasing him about the fact that the women were there specifically to see _him_. He had originally thought the women to be spies of sort, since he had seen them sitting in the same table for the past days, worried that either Director or Major Andre had followed them to Boston. But Caleb's rather frank assessment had thrown that theory completely out.

“Tall-boy,” Caleb said, patting him on the shoulder, “Have you looked at yourself in a mirror lately?”

“No,” he said, a little irritated. “I do not mean to cause any misunderstanding with my words and actions, but frankly, this whole 'women falling at the sight of me' is a bit of a tall tale and bothersome, Caleb. I was given an assignment by Washington and I am here to carry it out. If I am polite to the residents of this city, it is only because I wish to be. So please, can you not make a mound out of nothing?”

“Okay, okay, sheesh,” his friend said, holding his hands up slightly in surrender.

Fortunately, neither had anymore to say on the matter, for they had arrived at the home of Mrs. Elizabeth Sackett, or rather, the small apothecary shop that she ran. He had been surprised when Caleb had told him about Mrs. Sackett's invitation to evening meal, and even more surprised that she ran a small shop by herself without assistance. While close to the docks because of the various shipments that such a store needed, it was still far away enough that the hustle and bustle of the docks was barely heard.

There was still light within the shop, and he could see movement inside. Opening the door, he heard the bell chime and saw Mrs. Sackett look up as both he and Caleb entered. Shutting the door, he saw a kind smile appear on Mrs. Sackett's face as she said, “Ah, you're here! Welcome!”

“Thank you for the invitation, Mrs. Sackett,” he politely answered as he removed his cloak, watching her bustle around.

“Nonsense, my dear. It's always a pleasure to host friends and acquaintances of my husband. You saved his life, and this is the least I can do to repay you. Now, if you wouldn't mind standing over there for a moment while I wrap up and close the shop for the night, sirs,” she said, gesturing for them to stand near the recently doused fireplace.

“Do you need help?” he asked, managing to keep the surprise from his face showing. He was most definitely not aware that Sackett considered them friends and he found it oddly touching that his somewhat odd and cantankerous mentor thought of them as so.

“Oh no, dearie,” she cheerfully answered, as both he and Caleb stepped out of her way as she locked the door and replaced a few items that had been on the counter top back behind and below before dusting her hands. “Now, come, boys. You must be quite hungry after a day's hard work! Margaret has probably started making the stew.”

The three of them left the shop through a back entrance, climbing up a set of steep stairs to get to the second floor of the building. Upon entering, Ben smelled a very inviting and savory scent lingering in the air and couldn't help but smile. The home that Mrs. Sackett occupied was cozy, small, and modestly furnished, and he could hear the sounds of things being prepared in the kitchen. However, there was a sense of closeness and of protectiveness that enveloped the area as Mrs. Sackett took his cloak and draped it on a wall protrusion while also taking Caleb's long coat and doing the same.

“You may leave your weapons on top of the cabinet here,” Mrs. Sackett said, gesturing to the rather tall cabinet. Ben thought he spied the barrel tip of a rifle peeking over the edge. “My son has a tendency the climb and run things around the house, so please make sure that if the cabinet is rattled, the weapons do not easily fall.”

“We will,” he reassured her as both he and Caleb removed their pistols, while he removed his sabre and scabbard belt that was slung across his shoulder. His friend had also removed the advanced rifle that he carried with him, and an assortment of small daggers. They were all piled up on the top of the cabinet, before Caleb finally removed one of Sackett's other blunderbuss experiments that had been slung across his back and placed that on the pile. Ben nearly shook his head in exasperation at just how many weapons his friend carried – it reminded him greatly of the numerous amounts of knives and daggers they had found on Natalie and Brewster when the two had first arrived.

“David! Lottie!” he heard Mrs. Sackett say, clapping her hands together as she led them to the small drawing room that was attached to the dining room. “Please come and introduce yourselves to your father's friends.”

“Coming Mother!” a girl's voice answered before the pitter-patter of feet on the floorboards was heard. A moment later, Mrs. Sackett's two children appeared from the dining room – a girl...no, young lady judging by the dress she wore with an apron covering the front, and a boy who looked up at them with eyes mixed in both fear and curiosity. The young lady seemed to be ushering in her younger brother, who was holding two painted soldier figurines.

“Lottie and David, I would like you to meet Major Benjamin Tallmadge and Lieutenant Caleb Brewster, both of the Continental Army and friends of your father,” Mrs. Sackett said, gesturing to them. “Major and Lieutenant, these are my children, Catherine Charlotte and Nathaniel David. Lottie is fifteen and little David here is nine, but they are both attending the school down near Faneuil Hall.” The young lady dipped slightly, before realizing that her brother was not showing proper manners and gently smacked on on the shoulder while coloring slightly.

“It's a pleasure to meet your acquaintances,” he said, smiling as he heard Caleb chuckle at the young boy's antics.

“Now, off you two,” Mrs. Sackett said, turning her children around and patted them on their backs. “Go set the table while I go help Margaret.” To him and Caleb, he heard her say, “Please make yourselves at home. We shan't be long in setting out the meal.”

Bustling off, as Ben caught little David glancing back at them, wide-eyed and curious, before he was ushered into the dining room by his sister, he could not help but shake his head slightly. The boy definitely had Sackett's mannerisms, especially with the sometimes shrewd but owlish look that he occasionally saw within his mentor's eyes. He could hear the clanking of a pot in the kitchen, along with the placement of bowls and utensils in the dining room. Though he wanted to help, he knew from back when he mother had still been alive, she had made sure that no one entered the kitchen whenever she was just about to finish cooking the meal. Judging from the size of the shop and house that stood on top of it, he could only imagine that the kitchen was also much too small for several grown people to be loitering about in.

While quite cozy-looking, a rather large and tall bookshelf caught his attention, and he walked over to it. While he had been at Yale, he had learned that a family could be learned much about from just what books they carried in their home. Of course, there were several copies of the Bible in various states from pristine to tattered, central on the Sackett family's shelf. However, there were more than quite a few Latin literature gracing the shelves, along with several foreign titles that he could only guess at for the language. Bound works of Shakespeare also graced the shelf, but it was one of the rows near the bottom of the shelf that piqued his curiosity.

Bound pieces of parchment, some creased with actual hardback spines, and others just with twine, sat neat in a row. A few of the notebooks that had actual hardback spines had letters and numbers written upon it, and he didn't recognized the handwriting to be Sackett's penmanship. However, the encoding that was on the spines was most definitely something that looked like it belonged to Sackett – it was lightly encrypted, but formulated in the same manner that his mentor had had him learn last year. While it was easy for him to mentally decrypt it as he looked at the labeled spines for most of them were the month and year, followed by 'Journal', he did wonder why such items were sitting out on the shelf in the open?

“Major Tallmadge and Lieutenant Brewster, the evening meal is ready, sirs,” a familiar and unexpected voice said from the threshold, causing the smile that had been on Ben's face to disappear.

“Miss Shippen,” he managed to say in as neutral of a tone as possible without giving away his surprise as he turned and stood back up. Gone were the jewels and finery that he had long associated with the richest, eligible woman in Philadelphia. Instead, she was wearing a plain dark working dress, and had her hair pinned up into a plain, unflattering style. While still beautiful-looking, the touch of color on her face that made her look like an exquisite jewel last he remembered seeing her at her father's home, was gone.

“Ah, yeah, sorry Benny-boy,” Caleb said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Forgot to tell you. She's the governess for the children.”

“Oh,” he managed to say, as the edges of his lips quirked up in a humorless smile. That answered the question of who exactly 'Margaret' was. “I'm quite glad that you have managed to find employment, Miss Shippen. I do hope life in Boston is treating you well.”

“It is, sir,” she quietly answered, almost afraid to look him directly in the eye as Lottie and David peered out from behind her.

“Did you say that evening meal was ready?” he asked, not wanting to subject anyone else in the house to the unbridled words of hostility he wanted to say to Shippen. However, seeing her in a state such as this, with her home lost, her father under arrest, and her reputation ruined, he could not bring himself to feel as much anger towards her as he wanted to. She was, as Sackett had aptly put it just before he left for Boston, 'completely defanged – a she-wolf with no teeth' and no longer a threat.

“All right! I'm starving!” Caleb interrupted whatever else she was about to say, striding forward and breaking the tension that seemed to have hung around the air.

He gave a wordless nod towards Shippen as he followed his friend. There was a most curious of looks on Lottie's face as she slipped back towards the dining room, dragging her brother with her. As the family, Ben, and Caleb arranged themselves around the table, with the pot of stew and two loaves of bread on either end, Ben helped Mrs. Sackett into her chair before taking his own seat. There was silence around the table for a few minutes as portions were handed out and the clinking of utensils was heard.

“So, how was school today?” Mrs. Sackett asked, breaking the silence.

“Good,” Lottie answered. “Mr. James finally saw Thomas hurting those caterpillars in their cocoons and gave him five with the cane.”

“Is that so?” Mrs. Sackett asked, sounding quite nonchalant. “Hmph.”

“Lottie got her notebook taken away again, mother,” David quietly spoke up in between his slurping of the stew.

“David!” the young lady hissed.

“Lottie!” Mrs. Sackett exclaimed at the same time, as Ben saw her shake her head in frustration. “You know what I told you about bringing those notebooks to school.”

“I got it back, mother,” Lottie answered, looking quite indignant. “There wasn't anything of importance in that notebook... just a bit of fun!”

“Which can be misconstrued to be spying, Lottie!” Mrs. Sackett said before taking a deep breath. In a quieter tone, she said, “Please, Lottie, your skills at encryption are never supposed to be taken lightly...”

“Why, Mother? Why not? If Father--”

“Pardon me, but those notebooks in the drawing room,” he gently interrupted, realizing that all those lightly encrypted passages and journal entries he had seen were not by Mrs. Sackett's hand, but of another, “were those all written by you, Miss Lottie?”

“Yes,” the young lady answered, her exasperation and anger towards her mother melting instantly as she turned her attention to him. “Father taught me and let me help him and Mother encrypt our ledgers while we were living in England. I suppose that it spilled out into my journal writing.”

“No, no,” he answered, “it's admirable. Had I known the same as you do now, I would have done the same to my personal journals, after all, there are passages that we all write from the heart that the world does not need to know.”

“T-thank you,” Lottie stuttered slightly, coloring at the praise.

“That being said,” he continued, “your Mother is right. Bringing any sort of encrypted notebook, however benign, can cause people to perceive you in the wrong light. Your father is a Patriot, through and through, and his reputation is your reputation, as is yours to his. I think it would make him disappointed to see it shone in a different light all together.”

“I...see, sir,” she quietly answered, looking crestfallen and ashamed. “Mother, if I may be excused?”

“Not until you finish your stew and tell me how you got your notebook back. I will have no one in this family wasting a perfectly good meal,” Mrs. Sackett huffed.

“I stole it,” David softly answered, eliciting a chortled laughter from Caleb.

“Good on you, for helping your sister, you little rascal,” Caleb said in between laughter, causing the boy to beam while Ben saw Mrs. Sackett shake her head in exasperation, as if giving up.

There was a sudden knock on the back door that silenced Caleb's laughter as Ben saw a concerned expression appear on Mrs. Sackett's face. He glanced over towards Shippen at the same time Mrs. Sackett did, and saw the young woman shake her head. “Please, stay and continue to eat,” Mrs. Sackett said in a pleasant tone while getting up and placing her napkin on the chair. “I will see who it is.”

Ben would have returned to his meal, had it not been for the slight crinkling of Shippen's eyes in concern as the young woman watched Mrs. Sackett leave. While he was sure that given the nature of the Sackett family, Mr. Sackett and his wife would not have told their children about what exactly Shippen had done to warrant her coming to Boston. Ever since that incident in Philadelphia, Ben had been a little more careful in observing his surroundings, and even as Mrs. Sackett bustled into the kitchen to answer the back door, he hesitated in picking up his spoon again – did Peggy Shippen know of those who called so late at night?

“Miss Shippen,” he said instead, catching the young woman's eyes, “Is it normal for people to be calling upon Mrs. Sackett so late at night?”

“There are times that has happened before, Major,” Shippen answered in what Ben could only decide as a very cautious tone. “In an emergency, doctors and the like have sought her medicines that she sells in her store below...”

The young woman stopped speaking as soon as a low rumble of a man's voice could be heard but was cut off by the sharp voice of Mrs. Sackett saying, “Absolutely not! Who do you think you are, coming in here and disturbing the peace! We don't need your so-called 'protection'!”

There was a few more muffled words, but Ben was already in the midst of pushing his chair back, glancing over towards Caleb who was doing the same thing, saying in a low tone, “Caleb, you know what to do.”

“Got it, Benny-boy,” his friend answered, quietly but quickly hurrying towards the small foyer where they had left their weapons.

“Miss Shippen,” he stated, looking over towards the young woman who had also half-risen from her seat, trying to beckon her two charges over. She gave a fearful nod, as he strode into the kitchen with as much confidence he could muster, continuing to hear Mrs. Sackett's protests.

The back door was open, but far be it that Mrs. Sackett had control over the door anymore; there were at least two men, dressed in finery he did not expect, dark clothed and blended in with the cold night. The heat from the kitchen was rapidly escaping through the open door that one of the two men leaned upon, and his entrance into the place caused the two men to pause as he drew their attention from her.

“May I help you?” he politely asked, walking up so that he stood just a little in front of Mrs. Sackett, close enough to the first man who had a dark, finely stitched wool cloak around him, to take a step back. The other man had an oilskin cloak draped upon him, but far be it that the oilskin was creating a foul smell – there was barely any scent except that of tobacco lingering upon him and his companion.

“Oh, you a boarder?” the first gentleman asked. “Didn't think that the Missus here was in dire straits to allow one of you toy soldiers under her roof. If that's the case, then the fee's just gone up for you, Mrs. Sackett--”

“Perhaps you should take your dealings elsewhere, gentlemen,” he interrupted. “She does not care for whatever services you are offering, and neither is this a medical emergency. If you have business with this apothecary, please come back in the morning.”

“Stay out of this, _boy_ ,” the other man growled. “We got people up in higher places than you can imagine, if you know what's good for you.”

Ben's eyes narrowed slightly at the implied threat that was attached to those words. He could only assume that the men meant high-society civilians, but from their words, he also derived the fact that there was a form of corruption within the city – exploitation by civilians with the means to profit from the war. The black market was one such necessity that no one wanted to readily admit to engaging in, but this... this was unacceptable. There were men and boys fighting for their lives and for their freedom against the British, and yet the depravity of the human nature knew no bounds.

“There are plenty of militiamen and Continental garrison forces within the city, gentlemen,” he said, giving them a thin smile. “I believe that Mrs. Sackett here has all the protection she needs. Now, if you would please leave. Goodnight, sirs.”

The unmistakable cock of two hammers being pulled back behind him and Mrs. Sackett told him all that he needed to know. Caleb was standing behind them, and even without turning, he could imagine his friend's stance was quite cocky and confident, coupled with two pistols pointed straight at the two men.

“You think you got those poor sods playing soldier backing you up, _boy_?” the first man with the woolen cloak taunted. “Then you've got another thing coming for you!” Growling to his companion, he said, “Come on!”

Without another word, both of the men turned and left, their boots clattering upon the wooden steps that carried them to the ground. Ben poked his head out and watched their dark shadows disappear into the inky night before returning to the home and closed the door tightly. As he heard Caleb return the pistols to half-cock, he found Mrs. Sackett leaning against the cupboard, shaking her head. However, she did not look distressed and instead, looked quite frustrated.

“The work of a Good Samaritan is never rewarded, is it, Major Tallmadge?” Mrs. Sackett bitterly said, giving him a brief, humorless smile. “I thank you for defending me and my family, but I am afraid that you have gotten yourself involved in something that you really should not have.”

* * *

_And now, the continuation..._

 

“I know that I am but a stranger to you and your family, even with Mr. Sackett being my mentor, but I am greatly concerned--”

“And I truly thank you for your concern,” Mrs. Sackett said, clasping Ben's hands with her own as he heard Caleb shuffle away to put the weapons away. “But you must know something about my husband and I – we have dealt with people such as those two before, especially while living in London. Please do not worry, I will be talking with the local magistrate and members of our night's watchmen.”

With great reluctance, he nodded at her words as she let go and returned to the dining room with little fanfare. He followed her back in, seeing that with Caleb already there and settling down, Lottie and David were bounding back from where they had been by their governess' side. There was still a concerned look in Peggy Shippen's eyes, but as he took his own seat after re-seating Mrs. Sackett at the table, he noticed that Shippen's concern did not fully disappear. Something was bothering her, and given her hesitant words about a possible medical emergency earlier, Ben suspected something was amiss. However, now was not the time to speculate, for he was a guest in his mentor's wife's house, and proper manners were still to be had.

* * *

_The next morning..._

 

“Eggs!” he heard Caleb happily exclaim as Mrs. Freeman, the wife of the proprietor of the Green Dragon Inn set down two plates on the table. “I'll never get tired of fresh eggs! Too many mornings of hard tack and salted meats, followed by stale ale or weak coffee...”

“Your bread and fresh cheese are coming, dearies,” Mrs. Freeman said, giving both of them a sunny smile as she filled their mugs with fresh, hot coffee.

“Thank you for the lovely breakfast, Mrs. Freeman,” Ben said, as he pulled his plate closer to him, while clearing the gazette that he was currently reading off so that it would not be subjected to any accidental spillage of food or drink.

“Anything for my two favorite boys,” she answered, demurring and coloring slightly before leaving to attend to the other patrons.

Ben tucked into his eggs as he continued to occasionally glance over at the gazette, reading while he ate. While there was plenty of news on speculations of what would happen once the winter snow melted and the battles resumed, he was paying more attention to the local news. Nothing out of the ordinary was printed for today's edition, and advertisements and sales seemed to splash the page. There was the occasional blurb about some thief's trial being held at the courthouse, but nothing that spoke of people being harassed during the evening hours.

“Thanks, mate,” Caleb spoke up in between mouthfuls of coffee and eggs as Ben glanced up to see Mr. Freeman place a small plate of bread and a wedge of cheese down on their table.

“So how is the supply tally going on, Major Tallmadge?” Mr. Freeman asked.

“Well,” he answered, folding the gazette up and handing it to Caleb.

Apart from the garrison commander of Boston, Colonel Rutherford, no one else in the city knew that he had been sent by General Washington to assess troop readiness and supplies within the city. In fact, it had been Rutherford who suggested that in order to obtain as accurate of information for Washington, that they, Ben and Caleb, not inform any other soldiers, locals, or area garrison commanders of who exactly gave them their marching orders. It wasn't that there was corruption within the city and supplies being smuggled out without the wiser, for there was and it ran deeper than Ben thought possible, but the fact that Rutherford had been trying to actively combat falsified reports being sent to Congress since he took command of the Boston garrison six months before.

Ben had then learned that Rutherford's predecessor had been falsifying all sorts of reports and that a lot of the previous command staff of the Boston garrison had been smuggling and hiding much-needed supplies to the side so that they were able to sell and make a tidy profit on the black market. It had taxed Boston's residents to the point where there had almost been an uprising. To prevent word from getting out, Rutherford's predecessor had requested a command elsewhere, vacating the position. Rutherford himself then stepped in and within three months, had already replaced half of the command staff with different officers from the region. However, there were still the old-guard within the city, still entrenched and still falsifying reports, but covering their tracks well enough that they were not able to be ousted yet.

Ben had been incredibly reluctant to participate in such a deception within the armed forces, aghast at just how dishonest people were in the freest city in America. However, Caleb's rather strangely adamant vocalization against those trying to profit from the black market caused him to rethink his stance. He thought his friend was for the black market, until Caleb had told him that though the market served its purpose in the war, the fact that those in Boston were hoarding supplies for a well-to-do city was unfair. Especially if other blockaded cities and areas where they had Continentals starving, dying from the cold, and suffering because of illnesses that could have been prevented if they had proper supplies, could be rectified. That had utterly convinced Ben to join Rutherford in his goal to purge corruption within the city. Thus, while the garrison commander kept their true purpose quiet and secret, both he and Caleb allowed the other area commanders and soldiers to assume that they were supply officers from the region.

“So what area will you be covering today?” the proprietor asked.

“Most likely the docks near Faneuil Hall,” he said. “Any advice, Mr. Freeman?”

Mr. and Mrs. Freeman were one such family who did not enjoy or profit the corruption within the city, having been quite vocal about the abuse that those in power were having over their peers. It was from Caleb that Ben had found out that the Green Dragon Inn had nearly been brought out by false debts levied upon Mr. Freeman, until Rutherford had started changing things within the city. Now though, with the Inn secured, Mr. Freeman occasionally joined the night watchmen patrols – giving back to the public the appreciation for the good fortune he had. There was also a more robust night watchman's patrols that integrated and sometimes assisted with the garrison patrols in the city – and it was with Ben's hope that perhaps Mrs. Sackett had informed patrolmen of what had happened last night. Major signs of corruption were no longer visible, but that did not mean it had been fully eradicated.

“Hmm,” Freeman said, rubbing his chin for a moment. “Well, the central docks garrison commander is a Major Joshua Smith. Lexington man and educated at Harvard, I think. He's one of the commanders who remained here after Colonel Kent left, but with the docks so busy, it's hard to replace him. He's a fair man, and I don't believe that any of the soldiers in his area were caught up in Kent's smuggling ring. Word is that he keeps his books tidy and neat, but if you really want to see all the goods that go in and out, it might take a bit of convincing to get him to allow any outside of his dock garrison to see it. It's mostly because he doesn't want any soldiers not of his garrison or civilians otherwise staking out the docks and potentially stealing supplies and trade goods that the ships bring in before they're brought to market.”

“I see, and thank you for the information, Mr. Freeman,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee.

“My pleasure, Major,” the proprietor answered. “When may we be seeing you and Caleb here tonight?”

“Most likely not until after supper,” he answered.

“Ah, well, I shall keep some stew in the pot, just in case then, sir. Have a good day.”

As soon as the proprietor left and was back behind the bar, Ben heard his friend say, “I thought we were going to Lexington today?”

“Not today,” he answered, spearing the last of his eggs and eating it. As soon as he cleared his mouth and throat with another sip of his coffee, he said, “I need you to do something for me, Caleb. Something quiet-like.”

“Oh, secret mission? Did ol' Georgie really dismiss you as Head of Intelligence?”

“Caleb,” he said, pinning his friend with an annoyed look. “I need you to follow Peggy Shippen without her, Mrs. Sackett's children, or anyone else around her noticing it.”

“I can do that,” his friend answered, grinning under his bushy beard. “Just curious as to why though. I thought we washed our hands of her, Benny-boy. I mean, after what she did to you and the others at Philadelphia--”

“This has nothing to do with Philadelphia, Caleb,” he interrupted him. “At least I hope not. I just have this feeling that she might know something more than she's let on yesterday. She did say that medical emergencies sometimes bring doctors to Mrs. Sackett's house, but I saw fear in her eyes... similar to the fear that I saw in her eyes while we were in Philadelphia. I need you to follow her around, and let me know what she does during the day – I want to find a time where I can personally speak to her without anyone else knowing. If she is in trouble, then she may very well drag Mrs. Sackett and her family into it, and I will not let that family suffer anymore than what they have already have suffered through.”

“All right,” Caleb said, finishing his slice of fresh cheese and bread before dusting his hands clean. “I'll do it, but what are you going to the docks for? Are you going to see if any other stores or homes in the area are under this so-called 'protective services'?”

“Yes,” he said, nodding before glancing over at the grandfather clock that was behind the bar, noting the time. “We've got a half-hour before school starts. I'm going to go inform Colonel Rutherford of the change in plans, so I'll see you back here after six, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Caleb agreed, as Ben finished the last of his coffee, got up, and left.

* * *

_Faneuil Hall Schoolhouse..._

 

“There's something different about you, Lottie.”

“Oh?” she asked as nonchalantly as she could, as her best friend, Abigail Adams, or Nabby as everyone called her, slid into their shared bench and desk.

As she pulled out her quill and ink, along with the sheaf of parchment that was twined together into her school notebook, Nabby said, “Are you wearing mistletoe berries in your hair?”

“Yes!” she said, smiling, glad that her friend noticed the additions that she had made just before leaving for school. Her mother had given her a puzzled look at the adornments that were added to her hair, but had said nothing as Margaret had ushered her and her brother out of the house, not wanting them to be late for school. She had added the berries after a night of consideration and some rather happy dreams that had accompanied her sleep. “So,” she asked, taking a deep breath, for this was the moment of truth and she knew that she could count on Nabby to be blunt and honest, “what do you think?”

“I think it really does bring out the blue in your dress,” Nabby answered. “But it looks a bit odd. Might you be trying to catch the attention of someone in town? Has your mother allowed you to start courting?”

“Yes to the first question, no to the second,” she whispered, leaning slightly towards her friend while turning so that she had a good view towards the back of the one-room school. “There's this handsome Continental officer that my father knows, and Mother invited him and his friend over for supper last night. He didn't say it, but considering that Mother was freely talking about ledger encryption, I think he knows something of what Father does or at least something with business ledgers. He looked so at ease with it too – and, he saved us from those men who came again to bother Mother.”

“And your mother doesn't know that you fancy him so?” her friend asked, surprise coloring her tone.

She shook her head, “No. She was quite angry at me when David told her that Mr. James took away my notebook yesterday. And... you see Miss Margaret there?” She pointed to her governess who was bidding a temporary farewell to their schoolmaster, Mr. James, before saying, “It seems like Miss Margaret may know him or they met before, but upon their meeting, he was quite cold towards her. Mother didn't react to that, and you know my mother... she always has a reaction to everything that happens under her roof.”

“So you're not sure if she will approve of your asking permission from her or your father to write him?”

“Possibly so, but he seemed rather impressed by my encrypted journals that he saw on our bookshelf. Perhaps if I catch his attention more, maybe I won't have to ask my parents – he'll seek permission from them to write me.”

“Ah, so that explains the berries,” Nabby said, nodding and smiling before lowering her voice into a whisper that only her friend could hear as their schoolmaster passed them by on his way to the front of the room to begin reviewing the previous day's lesson. “What is his name?”

“Major Benjamin Tallmadge.”

* * *

_Boston Central Piers..._

 

It didn't matter how cold it was, seagulls still squawked in the air and fought over whatever tiny morsels of food, be it raw or cooked, that dropped on the docks. While sometimes a nuisance that Ben had seen the fishermen and oyster hucksters deal with when he had grown up in Setauket, they seemed to gather in rather large, overly annoying flocks here in Boston. That and the ever-constant presence of fearless squirrels who seemed to outnumber the rats in the city.

It was nearing midday on this chilly winter day, and the clear skies that had graced the city in the morning were already patchy with thick clouds. He could smell the fresh scent of burning firewood mixed in with the sour smell of fish, and the rather comforting tang of the salty sea. It reminded him greatly of home – of Setauket – and if he closed his eyes for a moment, he could almost imagine himself back there. But there was work to do, and thus he did not linger in his memories of a better, more peaceful time and instead, strode across the wet planks of wood as he made his way to the docks garrison commander's office.

It was in the middle of one of the larger piers, a weathered building that looked like it had seen better days but still stood strong. Passing by ship deck crew members and various dockworkers that carried crates of cargo on and off ships and whaling boats, he occasionally stepped to the side to allow those in a hurry through. There were a few clusters of finely dressed men and women waiting underneath awnings for the arrival of trade ships that were bearing their friends and loved ones, along with more sullen-looking people who looked as if they rather be somewhere else.

Of pickpockets and the like, they strayed far away from the clusters of patrolmen that the dock garrison rotated up and down piers, while a few menacing-looking day watchmen stood near the finely dressed people. A few glanced over at him, and it didn't escape Ben's notice that they looked surprise to see him – and he knew why. The Boston garrison uniforms were a lot more subdued with many of the officers wearing a darker variation of the blue-red scheme with their own cloaks covering their uniform instead of the bright blue-white jacket he wore. Fortunately, his cloak covered most of it, but it still marked him as an officer. It was because they were of a mix of militiamen and soldiers who took up arms first against the British occupiers. Dragoons and cavalrymen bearing the usual colors of their detail were far and few in between in the region – most were down towards southern New England and the Mid-Atlantic region. It was mostly infantry who guarded Boston and the region. Ben knew that he looked quite odd among them, but there was no helping it.

As he approached the building, he saw the two guardsmen outside of the rickety-looking steps up snap to attention. Stopping before the guardsmen, he pulled out the letter of introduction from his inner right jacket pocket that Rutherford had given him upon their first meeting. It was the same letter he showed to other city area garrison commanders thus far. Natalie's letter to him was safely in his inner left jacket's pocket – over his heart. “I'm here to see Major Smith,” he said, handing the letter over to one of the guardsmen who snatched it out of his hands with great suspicion.

Even though a shrewd eye was cast over him by the guardsman who glanced at him before looking at the folded letter, Ben mustered his patience at such an action. He had been forewarned by Rutherford about such actions by some of the soldiers. It was quite normal for people in this sort of duty to be suspicious of everyone, and he was aware that he did not act or present himself like a native Bostonian. He was a guest of the city, and with the successful ousting of British occupiers, along with the rather sweeping change of command, it was natural that there was some unease in having outsiders pry into their business.

He waited as the guardsman climbed up the creaky wooden stairs and entered the building. The door was closed behind the guardsman, but Ben had caught the strong whiff of tobacco floating out. While he himself was chose not to take up the habit of smoking such a leaf and did not condone others for doing so, he wasn't fond of the smell it left behind, especially how it stuck and stunk up his clothes. But, he was given orders, and even without yesterday's incident, he would have eventually had to have come and take a tally of Smith's soldiers and supplies.

After a few minutes of waiting, the door opened again and the guard came back down, gruffly saying, “You can enter, sir.”

“Thank you,” he answered, before making his way up the stairs.

As soon as he entered, the rather sharp, strong tobacco smell enveloped him. Closing the door behind him, he took the few steps that separated him from the officer's desk, patiently waiting for the officer to finish perusing his introduction and letter of intent. There were two other officers – a captain and a lieutenant – in the room, but both were not paying much attention to him and were busy with their own duties.

From the light that shone through the thin windows near the ceiling of the building, Ben could see that Smith was older than he was, but not as old as Mr. Sackett or Washington – most likely ten or so years older. There was a rather refined, well-educated, and well-to-do air about the man, with the way he sat and carried himself in his seat, and how he held and read the letter – holding it with his tips of fingers instead of nearer to the palm as most were wrought to do. Even the desk Smith sat behind looked quite polished and made of a dark-stained mahogany timber with an equally elegant-looking chair. His desk was neatly organized, unlike those he had seen at Morristown, even with Washington's cluttered desk.

“Well, Major Tallmadge,” Smith said at long last, putting the letter down and smoothed it with a hand before folding it back up. Ben took a step forward to accept the folded letter and placed it back into his inner jacket's pocket and took a step back. “After all that has happened, I did wonder when Colonel Rutherford was going to bring in someone from the outside to tally the inventory,” Smith continued. “And now it seems that I have my answer.”

“I wish not to disturb any ongoing duties, sir,” he answered. “I know that the docks are quite busy at any given time of the day and will endeavor to remain as unobtrusive as possible.”

“I'm sure you will, sir,” Smith said, before pushing back his chair and standing up. “Come, allow me to show you what we have in our warehouses so that you may provide Colonel Rutherford a most accurate report. I will also have Captain Lance here copy the ledger for you, though I do have to warn you that the ledger will change in a few days time. We are expecting a shipment of various goods from the West Indies... providing that the trade ship is able to break the blockade and run here without incident.”

“I understand,” he nodded as Smith rounded from behind the desk, while gesturing for the young captain to do as he had ordered.

Following the officer out of the building, past the guards, he walked side-by-side with Smith as they made their way down towards the middle area of the piers where there were a set of interlinked warehouses. “So, tell me Major Tallmadge, you have the bearing of a man who has sought higher education. Harvard, College of William and Mary?”

“Yale, sir,” he answered.

“Ah, Yale,” Smith answered in what Ben could only determine to be a decidedly neutral tone. “It was Harvard for me, and then an attempt to practice law in Lexington before those damnable lobster-backs decided that they were better off trying to raid our gunpowder supplies for their own usage. I don't suffer fools who seek to deprive us of our arms and armaments, so if you have any questions about what we keep here, please ask, Major.”

“I will, and I do have my first question for now, sir,” he said, nodding slightly. “How many men are garrisoned here and what are the patrol times for them?”

“Fifty total, including me and my officers,” Smith answered. “Captain Graham of the southern docks garrison will be able to provide you his numbers. We supplement our numbers for members of the day and night watchmen, since it puts the civilians at ease to see their own among us. Our patrols are usually five to seven enlisted men each, with at least one officer included who is responsible for the men. Their routes are to patrol two assigned piers each rotational watch, which is eight bells long.”

“I apologize, but eight bells?”

“Ah, yes, nautical term, Major. I apologize for it – we have adapted some of the navy terms and methods for the garrison here to integrate and work better with dockworkers and ship captains alike. Eight bells is four hours. We do have an overlap of one hour, bringing the total patrol time for each group at five hours on duty, five hours off, until they reach six days total. Each patrolman is given one day of off-duty to pursue whatever activities they want unless there are extenuating circumstances during that week, such as the incoming shipment of supplies from a large cargo ship. Something of that nature requires all men to be on duty to help ensure that contents are carefully tallied and stored.”

“That's... very exacting, sir,” he said after a moment, quite surprised at just how disciplined Smith and his men were. It was no wonder that he had been kept on as an officer after Boston garrison commander, Colonel Kent had been reassigned. “Of the day and night watchmen, do you know how many of their numbers join your patrol?”

“It varies,” Smith said. “After all, these members are voluntary and unlike even our enlisted men, do not get paid as much as them. They guard the docks and civilians because they want to.”

Ben nodded, as the two of them finally arrived at the door to the first of the long row of interlinked warehouses. However, before Smith could open the door to the warehouse, he asked, “Sir, the reason I ask about the watchmen is because I heard that there had been some harassment of those civilians who live near the docks. Have your night or day watchmen reported to your men about any such actions happening?”

While it was not entirely true, given the disposition and finery that the men who had bothered Mrs. Sackett last night, and her reassurance to him that she would report it to the night watchmen, he could assume with some certainty that the docks area would be a place full of rich rumors that floated about. After all, with Smith and his people guarding supplies with quite zealousness, merchants and the like were drawn to such wealth.

“Ah, you must be talking about those obnoxious 'protection' patrols,” Smith said, surprising Ben. “I have indeed heard about such 'patrols' and some of the men and local watchmen informed me that they are just some local people harassing people for monetary means. They are merely local pests who were floundering when Colonel Kent and his people left. Do you know where the rumors pointed their latest so-called 'shakedown' to?”

“Unfortunately, I do not,” he answered. Something in the way Smith held himself when he answered, along with the tone in his words seemed a little off to him. Perhaps it was a lingering learned lesson from Philadelphia, or perhaps it was because of his mistrust of Peggy Shippen that heightened his awareness – the answer from Smith was a little too easy, too convenient.

“Well, regardless, I shall inform the local watchmen in the area to keep an eye out for the 'protection' patrols,” Smith said, before opening the door to the warehouse. “After you, Major.”

~~~

_Later..._

 

“Sir, shall I inform Mr. Alexander's people of the circumstances of Major Tallmadge's inquiry?” the young captain quietly asked Smith as the back of their visiting guest to the docks, with his cloak billowing out slightly, vanished to a speck before disappearing into the night crowds in the city proper.

“It was precisely that man's damnable ego in his 'protection' patrols last night that got the rumors flying everywhere,” Smith answered, irritated. “His little endeavor is going to cost us one of these days! Tallmadge may have been brought in on the outside by Rutherford, but I know a bloodhound when I see one. Make some discreet inquiries with our contact at the main garrison office to find out everything about this Major Benjamin Tallmadge. I want to know where he's from, what he was doing before the war – check his story on attending Yale just before sure – and what exactly he's doing for Rutherford. Everything.”

“Yes, sir,” the captain answered.

“Oh, and Captain Lance,” Smith said before the officer could leave. “Inform Mr. Alexander that if he continues to stir up trouble around the docks with his extortionist ways, our agreement is null and void. If he does not want that to happen, I expect his men to follow Major Tallmadge and inform me of all of his whereabouts and who he has had contact with. We won't make the same mistake Colonel Kent did when he underestimated Rutherford.”

* * *

“It's getting late, Lottie,” Nabby said as they stood in and among the elder oak tree that stood like a proud, tall sentinel in the middle of the road. While it's leaves were bare and still covered in snow, it was where Lottie and her friends met after school no matter the season. While winter did not afford them much light or long to play before darkness summoned them to their homes, it did offer them at least a couple of hours respite from the night studies they engaged in within their own homes after supper.

“Yes, and I don't think Will or Lizzie will show up today,” she agreed as the two of them absently kicked at the small mound of snowballs they had made in preparation for the game of a snowball fight with their friends. “Perhaps that's why Lizzie looked so sad today. Her mother may have said she was not allowed to play with us today.”

“And you remember that Will has been frequently absent from school lately. Maybe he needs to make up some schoolwork,” Nabby answered before a tug on her cloak sleeve by her younger brother, John Quincy, caused her to pause and smile down at him. “Sorry John, but we won't be able to have a great fight today.”

“I'm hungry,” John said, not at all disappointed. “Can we go home soon?”

“Yes--” Nabby answered, but a sudden suppressed squeal of delight from Lottie cut off whatever else she was going to say.

“Oh look! It's _him_!” Lottie excitedly said, though she kept her voice in a whisper, not wanting to attract too much attention. “It's Major Tallmadge!” As she pointed to a man dressed in a dark cloak that billowed slightly around him with his confident strides, occasionally showing the familiar blue-white colors of his jacket along with pale breeches, she was not expecting to actually see him around this part of the city.

“So that's the man you fancy,” she heard Nabby teasingly say. “I must say, as for first impressions, he does give quite a marvelous one.”

She couldn't help but grin as she saw him stroll through the crowds and past them without even noticing them. However, it was not her intent to be noticed at the moment, for she was quite content with just seeing him, but it was Nabby's rather sharp elbow to her arm that caused her to break off her delightful view. “Ow! Nabby!” she said, annoyed.

“He has two people following him,” Nabby whispered urgently in her ears. “Look from the alleyway next to the tailor's shop southwards.”

She followed her friend's advice and sure enough, there were two men leaning against a cart full of barrels, looking quite nonchalant and at ease. However, she could see it on their faces that there was a keenness to their gazes. She followed their gazes, and sure enough, it looked as if they were observing Major Tallmadge. Her gaze went straight to where Tallmadge was, and from what her father had taught since she had been a very young child about reading people based solely on the way they walked and carried themselves, it looked like Tallmadge did not know that he was being followed.

Both hers and Nabby's assumptions about the two men were proven correct when Tallmadge disappeared into another alleyway, most likely taking a shortcut to whatever destination he had in mind. The two simply-dressed people had moved at the same time Tallmadge disappeared from their direct line of sight, and were moving with purpose. After what had happened last night, she was worried – not for her family's sake, for she had heard her mother's quiet words to Tallmadge about being bothered in a similar manner while living in London, but for the Major's sake. Mother was right, and as much as she adored Tallmadge for defending them and their honor, she could not let him get into further trouble with the nuisances that bothered her family at the moment. Acquaintances of her father's, especially nice and handsome ones such as Major Tallmadge, were practically non-existent, and she did not want anything to drive him away.

“Come on!” she said, taking Nabby's hands and dragged her with her. “We need to see who these people are.”

“Are you sure that's wise?” Nabby asked, huffing slightly, as they and little John Quincy ran as fast as their dresses full of petticoats, John's little legs encased in breeches, and cloaks could allow them to. She knew that Nabby did not like to run around Boston, preferring to be lady-like in manners, even though she frequently observed and reported many little details that she, Lottie, had not think to pick up. But little John delighted in such running and chasing endeavors, as did her little brother, David. Poor David was currently stuck with Margaret in their house since after school, because both Mother and Margaret thought that a bit of extra tutoring in maths and Latin would help him improve his next exam and essays.

John's whoops of delight filled the air, giving them the necessary 'cover', as her father often said of the observational skills that he had been trying to teach her before he left to support endeavors for the war. The plain-dressed men up ahead paid them no heed, and as soon as they disappeared out into another street that was adjacent to the alleyway, she sped up. There was an inn on this rather crowded and popular street, and if her hunch was correct, perhaps that was where Tallmadge was headed.

Bursting out into the streets that were filled with people traveling up and down, along with horse-drawn carts, she and her friends wove around them. She had seen to her left, the two men that had been following Tallmadge, casually leaning against the windows of a butcher's shop, staring at a particular building. Taking a sharp left that brought her close to the men, she ignored them as she continued to run, before disappearing behind the bend on the street.

Safely out of sight, and with at least a throng of people and plodding carts between her and her friends, and the men, she skidded to a halt. Behind her, Nabby also stopped, while John was giggling and out of breath. As her friend checked upon her brother, she pressed herself closer to the outer wall of the building that they had dashed to around the bend and peeked out. The two men were staring at the Green Dragon Inn, and she could only assume that Tallmadge was in the Inn. As much as she wanted to go into the Inn and pass on a warning, she knew that she would stand out and someone would tell her mother.

“Well,” she murmured mostly to herself as she heard her friends shuffle behind her with Nabby leaning against her back and shoulder to also peek out. “It looks like they're not moving.”

“Perhaps he's having supper, or something of that nature,” Nabby said. “I know you're concerned, but perhaps you can tell your governess about it. Didn't you say that she may know of Major Tallmadge? I'm sure your governess will keep whatever you tell her in confidence.”

“Perhaps,” she sighed, knowing that though she wanted to stay out here and keep an eye on the two men, her mother would become quite angry at her for missing supper and not returning home until late. She was already suffering under her mother's punishment for what happened yesterday at school, and dearly missed bringing her journal to school to write in whenever she thought she could get away with it.

She was fond of Margaret, for she was kind, patient, and did not raise her voice at them, even if either she or her brother made mistakes. She also told her stories of lavish parties and happenings that were the stuff of dreams, and of the characters within the stories and their outlandish tales of social behavior. Lottie was aware that it was a method to ensure that she learned proper manners, but still, she enjoyed the stories nonetheless. Maybe her friend was right – maybe the only way she could warn Major Tallmadge was to see if Margaret did indeed know of the officer in a previous setting.

* * *

_At the Green Dragon Inn..._

 

“Well, Tall-boy,” Caleb said as he chewed on the carrot before swallowing, “that Shippen girl is as clean as freshly polished silverware. After taking Lottie and David to school, she goes and delivers requested remedies to the doctors in the area before stopping by the Sackett's apothecary shop to drop off the payments. She then returns to the school and sits with the rest of the tutors, governesses, and mothers in the back of the classroom to listen to the lessons.”

He heard Ben 'hmm' for a moment, a most unusual sound considering that his friend always had a word or a few words to say upon anything that was told to him. But that brief moment of worry was quickly dashed when he heard him say, “Did you get a look at how other caretakers or customers of Mrs. Sackett interacted with her?”

“The doctors all treat her very nice,” he answered, ripping a small piece of his biscuit and used it to lap up what was left of the good stew in his bowl. “Lady-like, respectful, and almost as if she were a delicate angel of sorts... reminds me of that learned woman that I screwed before... she got the same kind of treatment from those at her local tailor shop. Reverent, as she told me the day before I had to sail back to the Arctic to freeze those precious stones of mine off in order to successfully hunt whales.”

“She is still beautiful, even without the adornments and finery that she wore while in Philadelphia,” he heard Ben say.

It was too good of an opportunity to pass up, to rib his friend about his thoughts of women, but after the rather biting tone that Ben had given him with regards to his constant fun-ribbing of his friend about women, he held himself back. Philadelphia had really changed him, changed both of them, and he could see that it was still taking its toll on his friend. Added to that was Peggy Shippen's presence within the city, and if Ben's rather sour mood and lack of good humor in the face of his usual jests continued well into spring, then Caleb wondered if it was appropriate for him to request to Washington or Sackett for the matter, to transfer Ben somewhere else for his 'exile'. He did not want to see Ben to continue to suffer.

“Well, that's unusual.”

“Huh?” he asked, blinking as he realized that Ben was giving him a quizzical look.

“You,” Ben said, using his spoon to point to him, “not even making some sort of quip or comment at my comment about Miss Shippen.”

“You did tell me to sod off,” he protested, though he couldn't help but grin. “Though not in so many words, and instead, in a much richer vocabulary.”

“Sorry, Caleb,” Ben apologized. “It's just--”

“Don't worry about it Tall-boy,” he said, just as he picked up his mug and down two mouthfuls of ale. “It's already forgiven. Besides, it's me who should be apologizing to you. I didn't want to tell you about Shippen being here in the city... you know, after what happened in Philadelphia and all that.”

“Yeah,” his friend answered, shaking his head slightly. “I'm just glad that General Washington did not execute her and granted her this mercy. She was as much a victim as we all were in the machinations of Director Andre.”

“So to answer your question about how those in the schoolhouse interacted with her,” he said, wanting to put aside the terrifyingly uncomfortable notions about the man who orchestrated the entire debacle in Philadelphia and almost killed all of them, “I didn't get to see anything. She did take Lottie and David home as soon as the lessons ended.”

“So the best time for me to talk to her would be during the time she is running errands for Mrs. Sackett,” Ben said.

“Yep. Assuming that she does this every morning except for Sundays. Do you want me to continue to follow her for a couple of more days?” he asked.

“No,” his friend answered, shaking his head slightly as Caleb saw him drop his spoon back into his own empty bowl. “I'll follow her. I have a favor to ask of you though.”

“Name it, Benny-boy,” he said, his grin getting wider as he heard the hints of a challenge behind those words.

“Major Smith keeps incredibly accurate ledgers, but its not the complexity of keeping shipping manifests and the like in order that bothers me. I was shown through the warehouses in his garrison area, but there's something off about that area. Not the contents, mind you – the fact that he can keep such accuracy of what is coming in and out of port is short of brilliant. It's the warehouses themselves.”

“What, like a spiritual haunting or something?” he asked.

“Caleb,” Ben said, quite annoyed to which Caleb put his hands up slightly to placate his friend. “I need you to pose as a dockworker or whaler, or someone of that nature and go around the area,” Ben continued after a moment. “Talk with the locals, not the garrison, and see what you can find out. See if you can get a look inside the warehouses. I'll give you a copy of the current manifest ledger that Smith gave me.”

“I can do that,” he said, nodding. “But, just to warn you, it's going to take a few days, so don't worry your handsome head off about me if I don't turn up for at least two or three nights in a row.”

“Do you need a disguise?”

Smiling, he said, “Nah. It's Boston. The entire city is my disguise.”

* * *

_Evening..._

 

“Miss Margaret?”

Peggy looked up from her stitching to see that Lottie had stopped her own stitches and had placed her embroidery down. There was a rather unsure look about the young woman, and even though they were only three years apart in age, the expression that the young woman currently carried made her look ever so much younger. She could see that Lottie was already in the midst of blossoming into womanhood, with certain curves already shaping her body, even though the dresses that she wore were still not quite adjusted to her changing body. But her face still retained some of the young childish roundness to it, not quite tapered into an apple-oval like shape just yet.

“Yes?” she asked, placing her own embroidery down as well. When Mrs. Sackett had explained the nature of her release into her custody after that terrible ordeal in Philadelphia and then the frightening transport to Morristown, the woman had clearly stated that she was to help educate and refine Lottie more into a woman of society besides tutor young David. Given Lottie's rather rambunctious and willful nature upon their first meeting, she had thought it an impossible task – if it had not been done the same to her when she had been at Lottie's age.

While she did not run around Philadelphia or encode journals like Lottie did, she did remember her own governess being quite exacerbated at her stubborn refusal to learn how to dance, properly eat, sit, and behave in good company. It was only after her sixteenth birthday, when her first gentleman caller came to her father's doorsteps in an attempt to court her, did she actually start taking her governess' etiquette lessons seriously. But her dreams and her wishes for a better future had all ended last year on that fateful day when a certain snake of a man lied his way into her father's house and brought about the downfall of her family's good name.

She had nothing left, and thus accepted the clemency for what it had been offered, and she was determined not to let her charges make the same mistakes that she had. From the way Lottie held herself, Peggy could tell that the question was to be something related to some boy at the school that she probably started to fancy after – after all, she had already been bleeding each month. Peggy was aware that more than a few of the young men at the school who had not enlisted into the Continental Army but were about to go off to college had started _noticing_ Lottie.

“Um,” the young woman nervously began, “I couldn't help but notice that yesterday, before evening meal, that Major Tallmadge knew who you were.”

“Ah,” she managed to say, half of her surprised at the young woman's words, the other half in a near panic as she scrambled to come up with an excuse that would pass muster. Even though Mrs. Sackett had never said it, she would never tell anyone else what happened at Philadelphia, but she knew that any lie she told of how she came to be under the employ of the Sackett family would never pass muster with the Sackett's children. Lottie and David were much too observant of the world around them.

“I made his acquaintance at a celebration soiree for the victory at Brandywine last year,” she said after a moment, knowing that to ensure that should Lottie learn the real truth, whatever she said would be close to it. “A little too much to drink colored my impressions of him rather negatively. He did not take kindly to it.”

The young woman giggled, but even that was short lived as she nervously asked, “Did you fancy him?”

“Well, that is as blunt of a question as any,” she managed to say, covering her surprise as best as she could. However, another thought crossed her mind as she realized just what Lottie was asking, and instead of getting flustered and angry, she instead smiled. “I take it you do, Lottie?”

Lottie's face flushed bright red as Peggy saw her duck and bury it against her embroidery. That was the answer to her question as the young woman continued to remained silent for a few long moments, and the way she acted was quite endearingly adorable. Six months ago, she would have scoffed at such a display of embarrassment from a young woman such as Lottie, and for not being confident enough to confront her own wants and needs. Had she been in the company of Peggy's friends, Peggy knew that at least Freddie would have said Lottie was growing up to be a 'pretty young thing'. But that was then, and this was now. Changed from her ordeal and quite humbled, Peggy found herself treasuring what little grace life gave her – such as this young woman fancying a young, successful military officer.

She certainly could not fault Lottie's heart, for she too was currently writing to General Arnold. Arnold's replies to her letters were a source of comfort, a tangible thing she could touch, and though his words were not the most refined of words, they were the words she wanted to hear. She kept her letters secret to everyone else except for Mrs. Sackett, who knew of her correspondence, for she did not want to deceive her second-chance employer.

“It's all right, Lottie,” she said, placing a comforting hand on the young woman's shoulder. “I don't fancy him myself, so you need not concern yourself about hurting my feelings.”

“Really?” Lottie asked after a moment, raising her head slightly, still looking quite red.

“It is as I told you,” she said withdrawing her hand, “both of our first impressions of each other were not the best of impressions. But... if you need help in trying to win his heart, I've had my fair share of suitors and will be willing to help you in that endeavor.”

“Um... does that include warning potential suitors that they have people tailing them?”

“What?” she asked, baffled.

“Please don't tell Mother about this--” the young woman began, but was immediately cut off with the door to the house opening.

“Please don't tell me what?” Mrs. Sackett said as she entered, closed the door behind her, and made her way into the living room. Lottie remained silent, though Peggy could see that she was torn between saying her words and keeping her mouth shut. It didn't help that she was still flushed red from embarrassment. “Please don't tell me what, Lottie?” Mrs. Sackett repeated in a sterner tone.

“Nabby, John Quincy, and I followed two men who were following Major Tallmadge. Major Tallmadge didn't seem to have noticed the two men, and when they stopped, they were watching the Green Dragon Inn,” Lottie quickly spilled, saying it almost all in one breath.

Peggy saw Mrs. Sackett thin her lips in anger for a few moments before saying, “What did I tell you about doing things like that, Lottie? Especially putting your friends in danger?”

“I'm sorry, ma'am,” Lottie answered, hanging her head.

“Go to your room,” Mrs. Sackett quietly said.

Without another word, the young woman got up, left her embroidery on the chair, bobbed her head, and ran off. “Mrs. Sackett,” Peggy began, knowing that it was partially her fault in allowing the young woman to spend some time with her friends before returning home for evening meal.

“Draft a letter, Peggy,” Mrs. Sackett said, closing the distance between them and holding up a hand to silence her. She surprised her with the usage of her nickname instead of her given name as she had insisted upon their meeting. “Use the skills that this Director Andre fellow imparted upon you and write to Tallmadge. Embed Lottie's warning in the letter and give it to me when you're done. I'll send it off to the Inn with one of the urchins.”

“Yes, ma'am,” she answered, nearly whispering her confirmation. While she thought that she would never had to use those horrific skills that had been drilled into her during her captivity in Philadelphia, it was fear that drove her to accept the request. Fear that the manipulative man was after her and had discovered her whereabouts, fear that she did not want to put the Sackett family in more danger than what they were facing with the 'protection' services patrolmen, and fear that perhaps being employed by the Sackett family was not the best for her peace of mind.

“I will not let my husband's friends fall into danger in this city, not while I still have breath left in me,” she heard Mrs. Sackett mutter.

* * *

_The next morning..._

 

Though it was cold, Ben still took the cold, wet washcloth to his body, scrubbing himself until he felt properly cleaned. According to Mrs. Freeman, bathtubs were currently quite popular in Europe, but here with the war going on, several, including those at the Green Dragon Inn, had been confiscated. They had been melted by blacksmiths to make musket balls, cannon balls, and other necessary war items that were needed to support the Continental Army. Thus, patrons of the Inn did their bathing and cleaning via washbowl and cloth.

Drying himself with a dry cloth, he left the wet one hanging on the lip of the bowl with the drying one folded to the side. Dressing himself, he started to feel a bit humanly warmer as the layers to his uniform were added. Glancing over towards the made bed that Caleb had occupied, he couldn't help but smile slightly – it didn't matter how long Caleb was going to be gone on his little assignment to the docks, Ben was finally going to get at least one full night of solid rest.

His isolation in his own tent at Morristown, coupled with the fact that his best friend at Yale, Nathan Hale, did not snore in their shared residence hall, made him quite complacent to the most common nocturnal sound that humans could make. Caleb snored. Loud enough that Ben had thought that his friend would wake the dead, and it contributed to him, Ben, receiving less sleep than he wanted each day. But, he didn't want to hurt his friend's feelings over something so trivial, and thus put up with it.

His friend had left early in the morning, just before the crack of dawn, and though the room seemed emptier and deprived of the cheerfulness that went wherever Caleb was, it was quiet. Quiet was something that Ben found himself missing quite a lot. His tent at Morristown afforded him some muffling of the sounds of the camp, but not the peace that came with a quiet such as this. It felt safe.

Shaking his head slightly to rid himself of his wandering thoughts, he tied his cravat before reaching over to take the blue-white jacket that had been draped over the desk chair. A knock at the door to the room caused him to drop the jacket back down as the muffled voice of Mrs. Freeman said, “I do hope that I am not disturbing you, but a letter came early this morning for you, dearie.”

Taking the few steps to the door, he opened the door to find the cheerfully apple-cheeked face of Mrs. Freeman standing there, holding out the folded parchment. Taking it, he saw only his surname written on the center of the folded parchment. The handwriting was not familiar-looking and the weight of the paper was thicker than what most letters were written on. Flipping it over, the seal was a plain dollop of red – there was no seal. Looking back up, he asked, “Thank you, Mrs. Freeman. Do you know who delivered it?”

“No, dearie,” the woman answered. “One of the usual urchins that my husband and I give leftovers to delivered it this morning.”

“Ah, well, thank you again for giving this to me. I shall be down shortly for breakfast,” he said, giving her a reassuring smile.

“The usual then, sir?” she politely asked.

“Yes, please,” he said, and a moment later, she nodded and bustled away. Stepping back, he closed the door and opened the letter. Unfolding it, he didn't look at the contents just yet and immediately went straight down to the signature. The letter 'P' was all that gave the writer away, but with all things considered, there was only one person in the city that he knew whom that 'P' belonged to.

Frowning, he started at the top of the letter and quickly read through the contents. While the written content was pretty much an embarrassing and scandalous declaration of her utter adoration and love for him, he knew that she would never have written something like this after what had happened in Philadelphia. She, like him, learned her lesson in trust – then what was the letter for? Placing it down on the dresser next to the washbowl, he picked up his jacket and put it on as he thought about the letter—yes!

Picking up the letter again, he laid a finger over the second line written and solely read the first and third lines—no, that was not it. Placing his finger over the first line, he read the second line and as he read every even line in the letter, his frown got deeper as he deciphered the content. He would have to wait to meet up with Peggy Shippen – not with what he had read in the letter. If he did, indeed, have people from possibly two nights ago tailing him, then he could not allow them to see him meeting with the woman. It was already enough that Mrs. Sackett had said that both she and her husband had dealt with people like those offering 'protection' details while in London, he did not want to endanger the family even further – even if it was through talking with their governess.

Dropping the letter into the washbowl, he regretted dirtying the pristine bowl with ink, but with no readily available lit candle and not wanting to get the proprietors of the Green Dragon Inn suspicious or involved in this side business of his, it was the only way he could think of at the moment to destroy the letter. Fishing out the now blank piece of parchment, he let it drop to the ground while removing the wet cloth and taking the washbowl to the window. Opening the window, he flung the dirty water out and placed the bowl back on the dresser after wiping it down with the washcloth. The washcloth was draped over the edge of the dresser. Picking up the piece of paper and he crumpled it as best as he could before tossing it in the room's small waste bin.

He wanted to rip the paper to shreds, but to do so when at any time, the proprietors of the Inn could come in and clean the room would raise suspicions. His crumpling of the wet piece of parchment would have to do. Leaving the room, he went down to the main floor where the noise of the morning activities, along with the hum of patrons talking filled the air.

Taking a seat at an empty table, he didn't have to wait long until Mrs. Freeman appeared with a mug of hot coffee and set it down on the table. “Mrs. Freeman,” he said, stopping the woman before she could leave, “I apologize, but I spilled some of the washbowl's water over the letter. In trying to clean and dry the letter, I may have gotten both the washbowl and the cleaning cloth quite dirty.”

“It's all right, dearie,” Mrs. Freeman said, shaking her head slightly. “Things like this happen every day. I'll just replace the two things for you tonight, no charge. You are already fighting for our freedom, so if you happen to dirty washbowls or cloths, it is nothing for us to replace it.”

“You are too generous, Mrs. Freeman,” he said, coloring slightly in both embarrassment and in shame. He hated having to lie to her about the nature of what happened.

“Nonsense. Now, I'll be right back with your breakfast,” she said, sweeping off with a sunny smile.

The rest of the morning meal was finished without incident, and soon with his cloak secured around him, Ben set off towards the main Boston garrison office. He had stepped out of the Green Dragon Inn and saw only crowds of morning people going to market, delivering items, and running errands. Children and their caretakers, governesses, and parents were also hurrying to school, and that was when an absurd idea started forming in his mind. If his two tails followed him on his way to the garrison office, he didn't see them, for they were blended quite perfectly within the crowds. However, he knew that even Caleb would be proud of his idea to lose whatever people were watching him – at least temporarily.

Whatever spy ring or otherwise was established here in Boston was robust, but there was one thing that whoever was watching and reporting his actions did not have – Sackett's training that had been imparted upon him and his other agents of the Culper Ring. There was also the training given to him by those from the future. He may have been the former Head of Intelligence for the Continental Army, but that did not mean his experience in the field, however little it was, was something to sneeze at. It was time to put all of training in espionage to the ultimate test – and to do that, he first needed a cover.

It was time to go back to being a schoolmaster.

* * *

_Mid-morning, Central Piers..._

 

“Two, six, heave!”

“Handsomely there! Handsomely!”

“Christ Almighty!” Caleb muttered as both he and the other dockworker steadied the swinging crate that had been winched up a little too quickly by the double tackle. As the crate steadily made its way up over their heads before being swung towards the other pier and set back down, both he and the dockworker that he had been assigned to help by the dock master went back to the warehouse.

Since arriving at the docks before the crack of dawn, he had only gotten glimpses of the first warehouse, not having a chance to even get his full bearings before being put to work. Workers here were moving several crates to the open area on a specifically large and long pier in anticipation of an incoming trade ship that was due to arrive within a few days – as per Ben's details to him. The copy of the Major Smith's ledger was safely tucked within his right boot, but he had not yet gotten a chance to pull it out and compare it to the contents they were currently moving.

“So where'd you say you're from?” the dockworker, a rather grizzled-looking man with a beard just as long as Caleb's own, except with salt-and-pepper coloring asked as they stopped before another crate within the warehouse, getting ready to lash some fish netting and leftover ratlines to the crate.

“Setauket,” he answered grinning as he picked up the ratline. “Did my share of whaling up in the Arctic, came back down when I heard that my girl here gave birth to a baby boy. Can't leave them poor and alone, not when there's a war going on, so I figured that dock work is safer.”

“Don't pay as much as them whalers,” the man said.

“Yeah,” he answered, affecting a despondent tone that was not entirely false. Indeed, his officer pay was significantly less than what he made during his days as a whaler, but there was a different kind of thrill in running around with Ben and fighting red coats. “Maybe when my boy grows up, I'll take him along with me on another crew.”

“Best of luck then, mate. You're going to need it.”

Caleb's grin would have gotten wider, had there not been a startled look upon the dockworker's expression not a moment later before stars exploded across his vision. He felt himself pitch forward, barely feeling his chin smash into the crate as darkness enveloped him.

~~~

“Leave now and tell no one of this, if you want to live.”

The frightened dockworker mutely bobbed his head up and down once before scurrying away. The dapper-looking man dressed in a finely stitched dark wool cloak, who had taking the rather heavy block to the bushy-bearded man, gestured for the other two to haul the man up. A third one bound the man's legs and hands before the two hauled him away.

“Mr. Alexander,” the one who had bound their captive up, hesitatingly started, “Are you sure this is wise? I mean, he is a part of Colonel Rutherford's staff and Major Smith has said to keep a lower profile until we get an all-clear.”

“It's fine, Trevelyan,” the man said, glaring at his second-in-command. “Smith wants to play nice with Rutherford and his bloodhounds, but we both know that the only way to put down dogs is not to kill them, but to discredit them. You've already put two of our boys to follow the other cur, Tallmadge, right?” The mousy-looking man nodded in affirmation. Alexander continued, saying, “So whatever that boy does or tries to do will be turned to our advantage. This is _my_ city, and I will not have some upstart of a garrison commander or his hounds seek to control it.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read and breathe Age of Sail stuff, so because Caleb should be well-versed in sailing and dock work from his whaling days, I'm using some nautical terminology in this story. For those who don't obsess over the Age of Sail era, here are some nautical terminologies for you landlubbers:  
> Block and tackle/double tackle – a system of two or more pulleys with a rope/cable threaded between them and are extremely common on ships and boats. A double tackle has four rope sections, where the most basic of block and tackles is a gun tackle, which has two rope sections.  
> “Two, Six, Heave!” - is a phrase used to coordinate the crew's pulling.  
> Ratlines – those cargo-netting that you see on the sides of sailing ships that crewmen use to get up and down to loosen/tighten sails or get to the mast nest.
> 
> Historical Notes: Abigail “Nabby” Adams and John Quincy Adams are the two real-life eldest children of John and Abigail Adams of actual history. Nabby was born in 1765, while her brother was born in 1767. For the purposes of this story, I've place the family (minus John Adams who is traveling to and from Philadelphia as a part of the delegation from Massachusetts) still living in Boston for now.


	19. Extras: Boston, Not Legal (Pt. 2)

**Extras: Boston, Not Legal (Pt. 2)**

 

“You are requesting permission to be out of uniform for at least three days, Tallmadge?”

“Yes, sir,” he said, keeping his voice and gaze as steady as possible as he stood in front of Colonel Rutherford who was leaning slightly forward against his desk with both hands splayed on the edge of his desk.

The Boston garrison commander slowly pushed back and stood up, drawing to his full height which was at least half a head taller than Ben. Nothing in the garrison commander's expression gave away what he felt about the request. “And pray, do tell, what is the nature of this request?”

“A friend of mine has family here, sir,” he said, careful to keep the Sackett name out of the context, “and I was asked to sup with them. During the meal, two men interrupted it and tried to harass the lady of the house into falling under their 'protective' services. She refused and I helped her drive the men away. I do not know if she has yet reported the incident to her local watchmen, but I found myself being followed by two men the next day.”

While not entirely true, especially about seeing the men following him, it helped reinforce his reasoning. “If it is as you say, that corruption is still rife within the city but hidden, these may be elements of a much larger problem that I may have encountered. I would like to travel out of uniform for at least three days to ensure that my assumptions are either proven correct or incorrect. I have a few former classmates of mine when I went to Yale, who currently work here, and would like to question them outside of an official context.”

Rutherford remained silent for a very long moment before saying, “While I find the fact that two men following you a little hard to believe, I have heard rumors of these 'protective' services being offered to civilians in the city. I had thought they were eradicated with Colonel Kent's leaving, but it seems that I am wrong in that assumption. Might I ask why you think this inquest should be done out of uniform?”

“Sir,” he began, but paused for a moment, for the lie that he had on the tip of his tongue suddenly did not seem appropriate if he were to seek full permission from Rutherford to engage in this activity. “Sir, I was the Continental Army's Head of Intelligence; a post previously filled by General Scott before General Washington sent him back to the front and subsequently appointed me to it. During my tenure, I learned that there are many situations where one must tread delicately in order to gather the information needed. Sir, these people who have been offering 'protective' details and harassing locals are well hidden enough that you said so yourself – you thought that they had been eradicated. If we are to flush them out, we need more information, and while the uniform that we both wear garners the attention, if you would pardon my presumption, have you ever spoken with Bostonians outside of soirees and official contexts?”

The silence that greeted his impassioned plea was very uncomfortable, but he held himself still and dared not shift in his boots. After a few long minutes, Rutherford quietly asked, “And what shall it be, Major, of the official excuse that you will present to me to allow you to undertake this assignment? For should we capture these people trying to exploit their fellow man, there will be a trial if we are successful. I cannot, in good conscious, present evidence to both the prosecution and defense that compromises this office in this endeavor or else they will call us hypocrites and no better than Colonel Kent.”

“I graduated from Yale, class of '73, sir,” he said, not daring to breathe a sigh of relief yet, for there was a flinty look in Rutherford's eyes. “As I was seeking employment as a schoolmaster, I submitted an application to Boston's school board, hoping to be a schoolmaster in this city. Unfortunately, I was not accepted, but given that we have had victories against the British at Saratoga and at Brandywine, it looks as if we are gaining the upper hand on the British. Once this war has ended, I will need to seek re-employment. I could go back to Wethersfield, where I was a schoolmaster before I signed up, but plying my trade in Boston has always been a dream of mine. I would like to talk to my former classmates to see how their applications were accepted so that perhaps my next attempt may be more successful.”

“That is a very lengthy and detailed story, Major,” Rutherford said.

“That's because it is all true, sir,” he admitted. “I am requesting at least three days to allow me to talk to the school board, get my bearings, and possibly be a practice schoolmaster on some of the lessons being taught to the pupils. All the while, I will be collecting candid remarks from the local populace about this 'protection' patrol.”

“I see,” the garrison commander answered before sitting back down. “While I am of the thought that these sorts of detestable and dare I say it, dishonorable endeavors should never be undertaken, I do see some merit of the task at the moment. Your arrival here in Boston could not be ever more timely, and therefore I will grant you three days furlough, Major, to carry out your task.”

“Thank you, sir.”

* * *

_Evening, Central Piers..._

 

“Why in God's name did you do such a thing, Mr. Alexander?!”

“Major, the only way to stop Rutherford's purge of our business is to--”

“Not capture and detain an officer of the Continental Army!” Smith thundered. “The consequences of such madness--”

“Are irrelevant,” Alexander interrupted, folding his hands together and resting them on his lap as he coolly stared at Smith. “You may already know this from your man inside of Rutherford's command post, but my two men who are following Tallmadge have reported that it seems that he was a schoolmaster prior to enlisting and has taken some furlough from his duties to observe schools around the city. There will be no bloodhounds sniffing at our heels for the next few days, and therefore, we will be able to move our precious cargo with ease.”

“While that may be true, whenever the boy resumes his duties, he will be at our heels again,” Smith said in a much calmer tone, though there was still clear anger shining in his eyes. “This is merely a short-term solution, even with the _Labyrinth_ taking our current shipment. We need a long-term solution that does not involve the abduction and detainment of Continental officers!”

“This is also an opportunity to discredit Rutherford, Major,” Alexander said, still remaining quite calm and collected. “If I have my people instigate an incident at one of the schools Tallmadge is visiting, we can use the confusion that is caused to perhaps add to our collection before it is transferred to the _Labyrinth_. Think of the infighting we would cause within Rutherford's command, if word got out that one of his trusted officers allowed such a thing to happen, especially if said officer was furloughed.”

Smith was silent for a few long minutes as he stroked his chin in deep thought to the proposal that the 'merchant' had put forward. “Are you sure? Because my man inside of Rutherford's command staff has said that he could neither confirm or deny which regiment Tallmadge hails from in the region. I cannot press him too much to send queries out, lest it be suspicious, and he is not privy to the words that are said behind closed doors of that man's office. We only need to damage Rutherford and his allies _within_ the city, not other commanders outside whom we may be able to apply more 'friendly' attitudes towards, once they replace Rutherford.”

“The damage will only be limited to Rutherford and those inside Boston, sir,” the 'merchant' answered. “I can guarantee it.”

“Then I shall leave the details up to you, Mr. Alexander,” Smith said after another few moments of silent contemplation.

“As you wish, Major,” Alexander answered, mimicking sweeping a rather grand hat off of his head and bowing quite extravagantly before straightening and leaving.

Outside, the 'merchant' sauntered down the stairs as the door to Smith's office closed behind him. Two guards were still standing at attention, while Trevelyan was pacing back and forth at the end of the small branch of the main pier that was attached to the rickety-looking converted warehouse. The mousy man scurried to him as soon as he stepped onto the pier proper, but remained silent as he walked beside him.

“Where have you and the boys moved this Lieutenant Caleb Brewster to?”

“Fourth warehouse, Mr. Alexander,” Trevelyan answered. “We've had to double the usual dosage of the Valerian herb for him. Sir, if we have to keep him insensible until the end of the week, we will not have enough for the rest.”

“We may have to, Trevelyan,” he answered, irritated. “Double the men watching Tallmadge and have at least one report to me every twelve hours with news of his movements. We must time the distraction correctly.”

“What distraction, Mr. Alexander?”

“All will be revealed in due time, Trevelyan,” Alexander said, frowning. “Have Keller pay a visit to our captive and 'decorate' him, but not to the point of near-death. Just enough so that we may give Tallmadge and whatever other witnesses there are a good scare when we release him.”

“Yes, sir,” the mousy-looking man said. “What of the herb though?”

“Keep him dosed on it. Once we discredit and remove Tallmadge from the picture, Mrs. Elizabeth Sackett and her apothecary shop will be more amenable to our patronage. We will no longer have a limited supply of the herb.”

“But sir, are we not supposed to--”

“Damn Major Smith!” Alexander hissed, stopping just before both he and the other man stepped off the docks and back onto dry land. Fortunately, there were not a lot of people around the area this time of night, and those that were did not hear his epithet. “I _do not_ care if that man is attempting to court that governess of the Sackett family! There are plenty of whores in this city that he can ride his fantasies upon! I am running a business, not a side-show! Now, go, Trevelyan, and never bring that up again!”

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

_Three days later..._

 

Though there was barely a difference in cloth and materials when dressing as a civilian or as an officer, Ben still felt quite odd out of full uniform and without his usual armaments. His shin-high riding boots had been replaced by scuffed but well-kept shoes; his pale beige breeches and stockings were replaced by colors of dark and light grey, respectively; his beige vest was replaced by a muted green-grey colored one; his black cravat replaced by an off-white one that he hadn't had time to properly clean as well as he should have; and finally, his jacket was replaced by a simple but thick dark grey one that matched his breeches. The only thing that he kept from his uniform was the shirt he wore under the layers. The entire outfit, minus the shirt, had been brought up from a brief stop by his home in Wethersfield during the journey to Boston. It was one of the three sets of civilian clothing he owned and wore while being employed as a schoolmaster in Wethersfield.

Caleb had questioned why he had picked up such clothing, and though Ben's initial thought had been that since his duties in Boston were to be quite light, he would have ample amount of opportunities to seek knowledge and information on how to improve his application to be a schoolmaster in the region. Never had he dreamed that his own clothes and his previous occupation would become his disguise. He could imagine his friend's voice and laughter in his mind, having a grand old time and being quite amused at his current predicament.

Though the brief thought of just how Caleb was doing with his current assignment to look into the warehouses at the central piers, caused a brief smile to appear on his face. He hoped that his friend was enjoying himself as he was sure he was wont to do while sneaking around. He certainly had not too much fondness for such a task himself, being more of the school of thought that was between Rutherford's statement about espionage and outright disguise and dishonorable deception. But this particular task of his was necessary, and he had secured the necessary permission to be out of uniform.

His initial apprehension in talking to Boston's educational board had not been entirely unfounded, for they had clearly stated in the convened nighttime meeting that there were other soon-to-be schoolmaster graduates from colleges who had requested the same thing. They had stated that even with his experience in Wethersfield, the fact that he was still enlisted in the Continental Army did not help his case for they needed schoolmasters now, since many of their previous schoolmasters were also currently enlisted into either the Continental or British armies.

However, one of the schoolmasters on the board had taken some sympathy upon him and managed to convince the board to at least allow him to observe the lessons. By the end of the night, another board member had reluctantly agreed to the same, and thus Ben had spent yesterday observing lessons within a small schoolhouse near Beacon Hill. Residents of that area had experienced some of the nuisance of the 'protection' patrols, but not as frequently as those within the dense areas of the city. Rumors of the patrols were more concentrated near shops than in residential neighborhoods, which he found just a tad odd.

Today's observations would be at his former classmate's schoolhouse near Faneuil Hall, and already, in his stroll from the Green Dragon Inn to the schoolhouse, he had heard snatches of conversations with regards to the local butcher's shop in the area being asked to participate in the 'protection' scheme. Of course, the butcher had refused and the only good to have come out of it was the fact that the man himself had ran off the solicitor with a rather menacing-looking cleaver being wielded. The bad was that the butcher's description of the solicitor was too vague that it could point to at least half of the men in the city.

When he arrived at the schoolhouse, the doors were still closed, and it looked empty from the outside. He stepped up and knocked at the door, but there was no answer. Stepping back down, he stared up at the building, admiring at just how pristine it looked compared to the schoolhouse in Beacon Hill. The schoolmaster had not yet arrived, but with the city started to wake up and go about their morning business, he was a little early. It had been a habit of his when he had lived in Wethersfield – to arrive early at the schoolhouse and prepare the day's lessons in the schoolhouse's environment.

“Mr. Archibald James?”

Ben looked down to see a youthful, but mousy-looking man approaching, dressed in various shades of complementary brown for his breeches, vest, stocking, and jacket. There was no one else within the vicinity, but it seemed like the young man had mistaken him for the schoolmaster, and thus, he said, “Pardon me, but I am not he. I'm Benjamin Tallmadge.”

He stuck out his hand for the young man to shake, to which it was firmly accepted as the young man said, “Ah, I apologize. The board told me that I was to observe and possibly practice today with permission from Mr. James. I'm Richard Trevelyan, by the way. It's a pleasure to meet you.”

“So you'll be graduating soon, then?” he said as he let go of the young man's hand. “From what college?”

“College of William and Mary.”

Ben could not help but whistle as he said, “You're a very long way from home, sir.”

“Perhaps at least from what my college is concerned with, but I was born and raised just north of this city, in Salem,” Trevelyan answered, grinning. “You?”

“I graduated in '73 from Yale, Mr. Trevelyan. I'm just here with permission from the board to observe and to help better my case for transferring to this city.”

“Oh,” the young man answered, looking a bit surprised.

Before either could say anymore, a voice called out to both of them saying, “Ah, it seems that I am the late comer for today.”

Ben turned and far be it that he smiled, he merely kept his expression pleasant as he nodded and stuck his hand out in greeting saying, “Archibald, its good to see you again.” It had been his former classmate who sat on the school board and who had convinced the board to allow him this opportunity. Though the two of them were acquainted through their schooling at Yale, they were not friends per se, for Ben had mainly spent what little free time he had during his studies cavorting around New Haven with Nathan Hale.

“And you as well, Benjamin,” the schoolmaster answered, shaking his hand and letting it go before nodding towards Trevelyan, saying, “And you must be Richard Trevelyan.”

“Yes, sir,” the young man answered, enthusiastically shaking the offered hand before letting go.

“Archibald James. Schoolmaster for this little house. Come, come, we have much to do before the pupils arrive,” Archibald said, gesturing for the two of them to follow. As the schoolmaster unlocked the door and gestured for them to enter before him, Trevelyan entered first, but Ben was stopped for a moment before he entered when Archibald quietly said to him, “I wanted to tell you this after the board meeting, but you know how things are when it concerns proper education in a time like this. I heard about Nathan Hale, and I wanted to pass on my condolences to you. I know that both you and he were the best of friends, and though I didn't know him that well, he always brought out the best and most entertaining aspects of our studies. He will be sorely missed.”

“Thank you,” he said and entered the building. Stepping to the side as the door was shut, he saw eight rows and two columns of pews with raised wooden desks that numbered five per pew. Two large wheeled slate-boards were at the front of the schoolhouse, currently blank, and the simple-looking raised pulpit was in the front and center of the room. There was a desk covered in some stacks of paper with quill and ink next to it were near the front right corner of the room, behind the slate-boards. A candle holder with a half-way burnt candle, doused at the moment, sat on the corner of the desk, with a thick paddle leaning against the desk.

Long and high windows covered each row and did not stop as the rows stopped. There were wall-mounted wooden benches that ran on the left side of the room and along the wall that the entrance to the schoolhouse was at. This was where visitors to the schoolhouse sat. However, on the right side was a heating stove that had a high chimney leading out of the schoolhouse. Stacks of cut logs were on one side of the stove while kindling, shredded pieces of old gazettes, and fluffs of cloth and cotton sat in a crate on the other side of the stove.

“Benjamin, if you would please, start the fire in the stove. Best get some heat in this drafty schoolhouse before the pupils arrive. Richard – you don't mind me calling you that, do you – please start writing out the alphabet on the left slate-board. The younger pupils will be practicing penmanship for at least the first two hours. I do plan on having the older ones write out complex word associations with the letters and translate them into Latin. I'll prepare the second slate-board for questions associated with the reading that you shall be briefly covering this afternoon with them,” Archibald said, placing a bound stack of notebooks, books, and papers on his desk.

Ben unslung the small pack that he had carried with him and placed it on the long bench at the entrance to the schoolhouse while Trevelyan did the same with his own set of materials, except it was on the left side bench. Since he was only an observer, it was natural that Archibald delegated the most mundane of tasks to him, but he did not resent it. Going over to the stove, he gathered the necessary logs and placed them at the foot of the stove. He then took the poker and smoothed out the pile of ashes that had dried after being doused with water. Placing the poker back into holder, he stacked the logs so that it would begin to burn faster and easier. Afterwards, he picked up the bucket that sat next to the stove and went outside to fill it with well water from the nearest pump, which was across the street.

When he returned, he noticed Archibald standing in front of the stove, peering into it. As he approached, the schoolmaster said, “Interesting way to stack the logs, Benjamin.”

“Force of habit,” he answered, placing the bucket down next to the stove. “When you have men sitting in the cold in a barren field, this is the fastest way to get a fire going.”

The schoolmaster said nothing else except to nod and return to preparing for the day's lessons. Ben resumed his preparations, stuffing kindling, gazette pieces, and cotton into areas around the stack, before using the flint and striker provided to start the fire. Moments later, with the starters merrily burning and the logs catching the fire, it was starting to get just a little warmer in the schoolhouse.

“Ah, _Aeneis_ ,” he said as he smiled upon seeing the various questions being written out on the second slate-board. Some were written in Latin, others in English, but all were specifically centered in and around the the incident with the Trojan Horse in the poem.

“I have my own opinions about this section, as I'm sure you do as well, but I should like to see what Richard makes of his own when the pupils give theirs,” Archibald stated. At the mention of his name, Ben saw Trevelyan look up from writing the last letter on the other slate-board.

“A very complex set of questions, if I do say so myself, sir,” Trevelyan said, tilting his head slightly.

“And here is the list of pupils that are enrolled in this school, along with their ages and current marks on various subjects,” the schoolmaster said, as he finished up the last of the questions and went over to remove a folded parchment, handing it to the young man. “I will leave it up to you to determine who can possibly answer the questions if you receive no volunteers.” To Ben, Archibald said, “Benjamin, if you would please, follow me, I have something to discuss with you before the pupils begin to arrive.”

Ben followed the schoolmaster until they got to the entrance. “I'm supposed to be the sole official observer for Mr. Trevelyan when he teaches today's main lesson,” Archibald whispered. “But since you've already had experience teaching, I would greatly appreciate it and consider it a favor returned for you being here if you would add your inputs into the report that I will prepare for the board.”

“So my application, even if I leave the army, would still be considered denied?” he asked.

“No,” the schoolmaster said, shaking his head slightly. “But to tell the truth, Mr. Trevelyan did not come as highly recommended as some of the other applicants. The board only agreed to allow him this chance to practice strictly because of the pupils that have enrolled here. You see, most of the pupils here are children of merchants, with many of them having been abroad and back and therefore, have a stranger view of the world than what the board considered normal. They consider teaching these types of children a challenge, if you will. A man by the name of Samuel Phillips, Junior, has already asked me to become one of many schoolmasters at an academy he intends to establish in Andover. I have already accepted, and thus the board is currently looking for my replacement. Given your experience, I would have heartily endorsed your application and succession to my position here, but the board knows that with the victories at Saratoga and Brandywine, more men will be enlisting come spring, not withdrawing.”

“If Mr. Trevelyan passes, would he take over your position?” Ben asked, finally understanding why the board was reluctant to even consider his application at such a time.

“Not necessarily,” Archibald answered. “The board will ultimately determine who is to take over this schoolhouse, but given Mr. Trevelyan's experience in the south where there is more mercantile trade to be had with all of the cotton, tobacco, and other crops, he can relate better to the pupils than the others who are being considered. That is why I would like your opinion on the matter.”

“Then I will do so, Archibald,” he answered. “Though allow me to wish you the best of luck at this new academy, friend.”

“Thank you.”

“I couldn't help but notice that there seems to be a cellar entrance built into the floor of this schoolhouse. Was this a converted warehouse of sorts?” he asked before the schoolmaster could step away. While it was common for schoolhouses to be built for purpose, considering Boston's ever changing landscape and being a bustling port, there were bound to be new and larger buildings of sorts being constructed; he didn't find it a far stretch that older buildings would be put to other uses.

“Why yes, this was a warehouse,” Archibald answered. “There used to be a cellar that ran the length from Faneuil Hall to here. I was told that it fell into disuse some time ago due to flooding or something of that nature. Too damp that it most likely quickly rotted whatever food or spirits were kept down there, I suppose. But do not worry, the children cannot hope to climb into such a dangerous area – the entrance is sealed by tar and try as they might, no child that has passed through this schoolhouse yet has even tried to successfully break that seal.”

“Ah.”

“Now, I have a habit of welcoming the pupils as they arrive. You and Richard are welcomed to join me, but regardless, I will be introducing both of you to the pupils before we start.”

“I would join you, but I have my own preparations to take care of,” he answered. “Thank for letting me have this opportunity though.”

With a nod, the schoolmaster exited and Ben returned to his pack, preparing his own notes and materials for the day's work. A few minutes later, the light chatter of adults and the clatter of light feet on the wood floor filled up the schoolhouse. A new school day was about to start.

~~~

Whether it was pure nervousness or just the fact that it seemed that Trevelyan strangely enough could not cope with the rather complex, but well thought-out answer that young Nabby Adams had given in response to one of the questions posed about the Trojan Horse section from the Aeneid, Ben found it quite odd. That, or the rapid-fire answers both she and Lottie were trading for each question that was written on the slate-board. He had initially been surprised to see Lottie, David, and their governess, Peggy Shippen, here at the schoolhouse, but his surprise was quickly dashed as he realized that Mrs. Sackett had already indicated him that Lottie and David attended this particular school. It was the only school that was close to Faneuil Hall.

Throughout the entire morning and up until now, David had been incredibly quiet but fidgeted quite a bit in his seat next to his sister. Ben could not help but be quite amused at the young boy's antics that exasperated his sister to the point where Lottie had given up on curbing his behavior. On the other hand, she had proven to be a firebrand in answering many of the questions asked, much to the chagrin of a few young men around her age and their tutors.

The girl sitting next to Lottie, Nabby, had been as equally as vocal about the answers to questions posed thus far. It seemed that both Lottie and Nabby did this often enough that Ben had detected a rather exasperated countenance within Archibald as he went through the morning lessons. The two were the only ones volunteering answers to the current topic at hand, Virgil's _Aeneis_ , though, much to his surprise and amusement, and it didn't escape his notice that some of the young men were goggling at the two.

But the answers they exchanged, along with Trevelyan's nervousness was short-lived as Ben thought he heard some panicked shouts echo down the streets. It seemed no one else had initially heard it, but not a moment later, his assumption was confirmed as the shouts of “Fire! Fire! Fire at the seamstress' shop! Fire!” bellowed down the streets.

“Someone call the fire brigade!”

Even before the call for the fire brigade had finished, Ben was already upon his feet, notebook and all spilling to the ground. The seamstress' shop was only a block away from the schoolhouse. Others were also scrambling up as he heard the hiss of the stove being doused with water before Archibald started calling for a calm and orderly evacuation of the schoolhouse as the tolling bells of the nearest church started to ring the warning. They needed to get everyone out just in case the fire spread.

Ben caught the bucket that the schoolmaster had thrown towards him and pushed his way through and out. As soon as he was free, he ran towards the nearest water pump that was half-frozen in ice, joining in with a stream of other people also filling up and hauling buckets of water towards the fire. He could smell the smoke and feel the heat as he approached. He had to withhold kindness and niceties as he pushed through the stream of people trying to get away from the blaze that was quickly being turned into an inferno in such dry and cold conditions.

Back and forth from the pumps, with hurried steps, did the community try to work as quickly as they could to put out the fire. He didn't know how long he was hauling water back and forth with the others around him, only that somewhere in the middle of his trips Archibald had joined him, snatching up another empty bucket the schoolmaster had found elsewhere. Parts of his sleeves, stockings, and trousers were already soaked and he was quite cold, but it didn't matter, for the sun was beginning to fall beyond the tops of the buildings around them when the fire was finally contained.

When the last of the fire was snuffed out, and only tendrils of dying smoke lingered, what was left of the seamstress' shop was a burnt husk. The shops on either side of it, along with the houses above and behind the shop had also been burned, but the entire block had not caught on fire. Coughing to clear his lungs of the smoke he had inhaled, he felt a heavy hand land on his shoulder and turned slightly to see Archibald also heaving and coughing like him.

“Thank God that was stopped before it could do more damage,” Archibald said in a croaky voice, removing his hand from Ben's shoulder. “I think everyone got out of that area. I saw the seamstress and her family a bit ways down, along with Old Gran and her family. Come on, let's go find Mr. Trevelyan and get back to the schoolhouse.”

“Sure,” he said, coughing one last time before clearing his throat and followed the schoolmaster.

The crowds were already dispersing, but oddly enough, neither of them could find a hide or hair of Trevelyan. Ben thought that he had seen the mousy man helping them douse the fire, but with the chaos and the number of people helping, he wasn't sure. After a few minutes of fruitlessly searching around, both he and the schoolmaster decided to return to the empty schoolhouse, assuming that Trevelyan had returned there, only to find Peggy Shippen, Lottie, and a couple of unfamiliar men seemingly searching the perimeter.

“What's going on?” he heard Archibald ask as one of the men, along with the two young women spotted them and hurried up to them.

“Are you the schoolmaster of this place?” the man asked.

“Yes, sir,” the schoolmaster answered.

“Ethan Archer, local captain of the watchmen of this area. We have a missing child--”

“I'm terribly sorry, Mr. James, but I thought David was with us when we were evacuating,” Shippen interrupted. “I don't know when he let go of Lottie's hand and where he is.”

“I locked the door after everyone was evacuated,” Archibald answered, “but I can open it back up.”

“Please do so, sir,” Archer answered, gesturing for the other man to follow Archibald, with Ben handing the bucket over to him, as both Lottie and her governess trailed after the two.

“Major Benjamin Tallmadge,” Ben introduced himself to the watchman, greatly concerned by the disappearance of the young child. “I was on permissible furlough by Colonel Rutherford. How far did you search, Captain Archer?”

“It's just Mister, sir,” Archer answered. “The boys only say I'm captain because none of them want to do the paper work with cases like these. To answer your question, we searched around the schoolhouse, Faneuil Hall, and all the way to where the fire was. One of my other men is in the midst of searching one block north. Do you know the miss and her charges?”

“Yes. They're a friend's family,” he answered. “Why aren't there more men searching?”

“With the fire and all, most were in that area or at the docks, where there's a large trade that just arrived. Major Smith, the garrison commander there, got them working to move crates and the like to and from the warehouses,” Archer said. “Methinks that with the fire doused, the rest of the boys will be returning to the docks. Extra pay and all. Leaves me with only a small crew for stuff like this.”

“Trade is more important than a child's life?” he asked, incredulous.

“This may sound callous, but children go missing everyday here, Major Tallmadge. Mostly urchins and the like, but some from the more well-to-do families have their boys and girls run off – hanging out with the runaways and the like. Many of them turn up after a few days, a little worse for wear.”

“And the ones that don't?”

“Orphans and those that scurry like rats,” Archer said, shrugging slightly. “Believe me, sir, I would have reported it to Major Smith, but the man's already busy enough trying to keep a semblance of order at the docks. He's also never been too keen on worrying over those little ones who don't contribute much to society.”

“But you are?” he cautiously asked, for there was something about the quality in Archer's tone that made him think twice about the man otherwise.

He unfortunately, did not receive his answer as the noise from those exiting the schoolhouse caught both of their attention. The little boy was not among those exiting, and there was a clear worry etched over Lottie and her governess' expressions. That was further compounded when a shout of, “Captain Archer, sir! I found someone suspicious!”

Ben turned, and gaped in surprise as to the man that Archer's watchman was hauling out of an alleyway across from the schoolhouse. “Caleb?!”

“You know this man?” the watchman asked.

“Wha-what happened?!” he asked, hurrying over, ignoring the question. His friend was too pale, slurring and mumbling some incoherent words, and looking quite inebriated as he was half-dragged by the watchman. The trousers that he wore were torn, as was his shirt. The long coat that he had worn was completely missing – it looked as if he had gotten into a terrible fight, for Ben could see bruises covering at least parts of his friend's skin where it was showing. Given his friend's usual temperament, he didn't even think Caleb could lose in a fistfight.

“I apologize, sir, but we'll have to take him into custody,” Archer said, intercepting him before he could reach Caleb.

“But he's not a criminal! I know him, and there is no possibility that he could kidnap a child!”

“Sir, I found him wandering and muttering some nonsense about children at the docks warehouse,” the watchman said. “I assumed--”

“Major Tallmadge is correct,” Shippen spoke up, approaching with Lottie in tow. “I too know this man, and he is a friend of the family. He would never abduct David. Who could have done this to him?”

Grateful for the governess' intervention, he stepped to the side and was allowed past Archer. Slinging one of Caleb's arms over his shoulders as the watchman who had dragged him glanced over at his commander, only to receive a nod from Archer, Ben said, “We need to get him back to the Green Dragon Inn and have a doctor look him over. Maybe he's seen David.”

“I'll accept your word, sir,” Archer said. “I'll have Gordon here continue to search around while I escort Miss Shippen and Miss Sackett home.”

“I too, will continue to search for young David,” Archibald spoke up before turning to Lottie and her governess. “Please do not worry. We will do everything possible to try to find him.”

As the watchman captain escorted the two away from the area, both the other watchman and Archibald returned to the vicinity of the schoolhouse, resuming their search. He, with the other watchman, slowly hobbled the semi-conscious form of Caleb back to the Green Dragon Inn. When the three of them entered the Inn, Mr. and Mrs. Freeman both stopped whatever they had been doing and quickly came to help them.

With Mrs. Freeman fussing over Caleb as if he were her own son, Mr. Freeman returned to tending to the patrons below as they went up stairs. Easing Caleb onto his bed, Mrs. Freeman took charge and ordered to fetch various items, while the watchmen was sent to fetch a doctor. Minutes that seemed like years passed as Ben kept giving worried looks at his friend. However, he finally pushed the worry for Caleb towards the back of his mind as a doctor, fetched by the watchman, arrived and started to tend to his friend.

“Who could have done this to him?” Mrs. Freeman worriedly ask, stepping back as they let the doctor do his work.

“I don't know, but I cannot stay for now, Mrs. Freeman,” he said, knowing that despite wanting to stay and make sure his friend was going to be all right, little David was still missing and he needed to help search for him. “There's a child who has gone missing near Faneuil Hall, and I, along with a Mr. Archer of the watchmen are searching for him.”

“Oh, Ethan Archer, bless his soul,” Mrs. Freeman said. “My husband heard that there was a trade ship coming in and that most of the watchmen of that area have been recruited by Major Smith to help ready the shipment from the warehouses for transfer. The poor thing... he must have not enough men to help him. What is the boy's name you and him are looking for?”

“David Sackett,” he answered.

“Nathaniel David Sackett, as in the son of Mrs. Sackett of Sackett Apothecary's down by the docks?” she questioned.

“Yes,” he confirmed, as Mrs. Freeman took one last look at Caleb being tended to by the doctor and bustled out. Ben followed her, as did the watchman and as soon as they reached the ground floor, he saw her head straight towards her husband. She pulled him to the side and whispered a few words before Ben saw Mr. Freeman nod.

A moment later, Mr. Freeman clapped his hands rather loudly, saying, “All right you citizens of my Inn. Time to really earn your keep as watchmen of the city. We have a child, David Sackett, missing near Faneuil Hall and not enough watchmen in that area to look for him.”

Amazed at just how many people within the ground floor of the Inn, some looking a little more drunk than others, with even the ones who had moments ago, merrily challenging their compatriots to drinking games, stood up. Warmth filled him at just how much the citizens of Boston looked out for each other, no matter where they were, be it at the docks or near the center of the city. The war may have torn families apart, but new ones grew everyday, and even with what they had suffered through, the people of the city were still protective of their own.

“Lead the way, Major,” Mr. Freeman said, “We'll help with the search.”

“Don't worry, dearie,” Mrs. Freeman said, “I'll keep an eye on Caleb and send someone out to find you when he wakes up.”

“T-thank you,” he managed to say before the woman turned and went back up the stairs. With a wordless gesture for the men to follow him, both he and the watchman exited the Inn and hurried back towards the schoolhouse. Perhaps with more eyes on the lookout, especially with people who knew the nooks and crannies of the city better than he did, the boy would be soon found.

* * *

_Green Dragon Inn, the next morning..._

 

There were good aches and there were bad aches – these particular aches that ran throughout his body were part of the bad ones...really bad ones that he cared never to relive again in his lifetime, not if Caleb could help it. Still, an ache was an ache, and it told him that at least he was alive and kicking. He had to thank God for that, even though he had not spoken to the Lord through prayer in a while. He also had to thank Ben--

Caleb opened his eyes, wincing slightly as he moved under the sheets and blankets that had been drawn up to his chin. The ceiling looked familiar, and as he looked around, he realized that the inexorably sleepy and muddled feeling that had plagued him for what felt like a few days was completely gone. The aches and pain that he felt were still there, but they didn't feel as acute as they had, stuck in the cold wherever he had been. The memories or what little he had, of the past few days, started to return as blinked to clear the fuzziness in his eyes.

He remembered working early in the morning at the docks, but after retrieving another crate from the first warehouse, the rest of his memories was sketchy as best. Had he talked to Ben last night? He didn't remember, and if he did, he did not know what he had said, only that the particular memory of him needing to thank Ben for whatever he had done was quite strong.

The splash of water hitting something caused him to turn his head to the left, only to see his friend scrubbing himself from waist up with a washcloth. Ben was standing across the room, his back turned towards him. Caleb could see a few faint scars from lacerations that came with falling off horses and shrapnel of wood that had bit into his friend's back during the battles they had fought in, but the largest of scars was the ugly welt that was puckered but healed – where Ben had been shot through his shoulder by Robert Rogers' musket ball from a flintlock rifle.

Though Ben had never stated it, Caleb considered it a miracle that Rogers' shot had not shattered anything in Ben's shoulder, passing only through flesh before exiting quite cleanly and leaving no pieces of cloth behind. He could only imagine how painful it must have been for Ben to carry that wound back to General Scott _and_ report what had happened while being tended to that wound. It healed, but he had seen his friend discreetly flex his right shoulder at times, as if the wound still caused him pain and he was trying to rid himself of that pain.

“You sure you scrubbed your nutsacks clean before putting on your breeches, Benny-boy?” he asked, as he ignored the raspy sound of his own voice.

“Caleb!” The washcloth was dropped into the basin of water in surprise with a _plop!_ as Ben turned around.

Openly grinning, he managed to push himself up to a sitting position, ignoring the ache that crawled through his entire body, even though it felt like a team of four horses had trampled across him several times. “Hey, look at the Tall-boy,” he said, as his friend approached. “Wow,” he said, noticing that there were some dark circles under Ben's eyes, “You look like shite.”

“Then what do you think _you_ look like?” Ben countered, smiling before engulfing him in tight hug. “Christ, I thought you were not going to survive. What happened to you?”

“Don't remember,” he said, as Ben let him go and stood up again. “Don't tell me you were up all night watching over me? Cause I'd honestly be really touched by that... right here, in my cold, black heart,” he half-mocked, pointing straight at his chest as his grin grew even wider.

“No,” his friend answered shaking his head as he stepped away to retrieve his shirt. Donning it and tucking it into his breeches, Ben continued to say, “David Sackett's gone missing. There was a fire yesterday near the schoolhouse where he attends, and during the evacuation, he disappeared. I and a few others of the watchmen have been out searching for him all night. I only got back here fifteen minutes ago to freshen up, get something to drink, and am going to go back to searching.”

“What about Lottie?” he asked, the grin all but disappearing, only to be replaced by a frown as he attempted to push the blankets that had been covering him back.

“Caleb, don't,” his friend said, stopping mid-way through his buttoning up of his beige vest to approach and push him back down. “You're still injured. Lottie and Miss Shippen are fine.”

“To hell I am going to stay here, Tall-boy,” he insisted, batting away Ben's hand. He was unsuccessful in keeping the wince off of his face at such an action that pulled and tugged on the bandages that were wrapped around his waist, chest, and arms. Whatever strength he had, was also slowly slipping away, making it harder for him to stay upright.

“Don't,” Ben insisted again, and this time, it was impossible for Caleb to resist and he sunk back into his bed. Damn whoever had caused this to happen to him, and damn his memories for he could not remember anything other than that morning at the warehouses. With Ben tucking the blankets around him again, he heard his friend say, “Get some rest. If we haven't found him by the time you wake up again, you can join in the search. I'll have Mrs. Freeman leave you something to eat and drink.”

“Yes, mother,” he grumpily, but sleepily answered.

* * *

Ben sighed mostly to himself as the sounds of Caleb's snoring filled the relative silence in the air. He finished buttoning up his vest before donning his uniform jacket on. Next came the sabre and his pistol and once those two were secured, he plucked his cloak off of the wall hanger and draped it around him. His three days of furlough were over, and thus he needed to be back in uniform. He was tired, but he could not in good conscious, even think about sleeping or resting until little David was found. Whatever information he had been collecting about the 'protection' patrols would have to be set aside later – his notebook was also still at the schoolhouse, but he was not worried about people accidentally looking at it – it was fully encrypted.

News had come in during the middle of the night from Archer – several more children not here, but elsewhere within the city had also gone missing. One of them had also been the daughter of a general goods merchant. The others included in the total missing were urchins that ran about passing messages and the like from one merchant to another. Still, word had been spread, and a great number of volunteers had turned out, searching everywhere in the city.

The missing girl had been found, hiding in the attic of an abandoned building, having accidentally fallen asleep during a game of hide-and-seek with her friends. Even though it had been an accident, it gave some hope to those searching that perhaps David and the others could be found. He, along with Archer and the others had slowly spread out from the schoolhouse during the night after hours of fruitless searching in the area, hoping that by widening their search, little David could be found.

Exiting the room, he quietly closed the door and went down stairs. It was more subdued and patrons who were normally there were not – most were still out, as was Mr. Freeman. Stopping by the bar, he caught Mrs. Freeman's attention and as she stopped before him, he said, “Caleb's awake.”

“Oh thank God!” she said, looking quite relieved.

“He's still resting, but I told him about David and he's probably going to wake up, wanting to help. If you would please, leave him some food and drink?”

“Yes, I will, dearie. You look like you could use a nice hot breakfast yourself. Will you be having anything to eat?”

“Just some coffee, please,” he said. “I need to continue to help the others search.”

“Well, at least Miss Mathilda was found,” Mrs. Freeman said, pouring him a rather generous amount of coffee in a mug normally reserved for large pints of ale. “Here, I insist. You need your strength and since you will not have breakfast, the least I can do for you is to provide you with some liquid strength.”

“Thank you,” he answered, picking up the mug and sipping the coffee for a few minutes until there was nothing left.

Sufficiently warmed up and ready to continue the search, he departed into a rather windy morning. Crossing two alleyways and coming to another main thoroughfare, he spotted Archer talking with a blacksmith in front of the smith's workshop. “Mr. Archer!” he shouted, just as he saw the man finish his conversation with the blacksmith and turn away, hurrying towards the watchman.

“Oh, Major!” Archer said, pausing and turning back. “I almost didn't recognize you in uniform. Your furlough is over?”

“It is, but my help with the search is not,” he said. “How is it?”

“Still haven't found the boy,” Archer answered, shaking his head slightly. “I was going to start back at the schoolhouse again. Maybe we missed something during the night, and with light breaking over the city, perhaps more clues can be gleaned from a lit area?”

“Good idea,” he said, gesturing for Archer to lead the way. The two of them wound their way through the early morning crowds, but when they finally got to the schoolhouse, there was a small crowd that had formed on the street next to the entrance. Ben could hear concerned murmurs floating around.

“Make way, make way!” the watchman insisted, pushing himself through, with Ben following close behind.

He stopped short of fully entering the circle that had formed around the man who was lying face down on the ground, clothes seemingly nearly torn apart by what looked almost like a wolf attack, but was not – there was no sign of blood and only the signs that he had been severely beaten. As the watchman turned the man over, Ben could not help but say, “Archibald...”

He barely recognized his former classmate underneath all of the black, red, and angry-looking bruising that covered his face, arms, legs, and body. What monster had done this, and when? Last he knew, Archibald had also been looking for David...had the schoolmaster encountered someone that might have taken the child? Had David been abducted?

“He's alive!” Archer said, as all of them saw the schoolmaster's eyelids flutter slightly. “Someone get a bloody doctor!”

The familiar clattering and jangling of sabres and pistols from infantrymen was heard as the crowd suddenly parted to let Major Smith through. “Major Tallmadge,” Smith said without preamble, “A lad passed on news of an assault of sorts happening in broad daylight. What happened?”

“I am as in the dark as you are, sir,” he truthfully answered. “We were searching for a missing boy and only found the schoolmaster here just now.”

“Ah yes, the missing boy,” Smith answered. “I heard about that too. As soon as my men, along with the watchmen, and dockworkers are doing loading the ship, I will release them from their duties to help. I do commend whoever put together the search party. But back to this man. You say that he is a schoolmaster?”

“Yes,” Ben answered as a doctor and two assistants hurrying through, pushing past the curious crowd which was starting to disperse, knowing that the curiosity was soon to be over and done with. “That school there,” he said, pointing to the schoolhouse. “His name is Archibald James. The boy we were searching for also attended that school.”

“Most curious,” Smith said, frowning. “I'm afraid that we may have to close this particular school down, now that there's been a clear attack on the schoolmaster and the abduction of a pupil.”

“Abduction?!” he questioned. “I never said anything about an abduction. The boy is _missing_ , and there's no need to close a school down just because of this!”

“What else would it be, Major Tallmadge?” Smith asked, his tone just slightly condescending. “School for merchant children, one is missing – abduction is the most reasonable motive to have.” As the doctor and the two assistants lifted Archibald up and hurried away with their patient, the garrison commander said, “Perhaps if the good schoolmaster lives, he may yet tell us what may have happened to him, and if it is connected to the missing child. But I still have to insist on closing the school for now. I cannot spare any men at this moment to protect the school or pupils--”

“I'll protect them,” he interrupted. “I was a schoolmaster back in Wethersfield before mustering. You can confirm it with the education board here and with Colonel Rutherford. I can carry out the lessons that Mr. James was to instruct them in, and ensure that the students do not panic over the matter. If you close the school now, it will only spread fear among the populace here, sir. There's already enough of it with the fire at the seamstress' shop, a missing child, and now this.”

He saw Smith narrow his eyes slightly before nodding and saying, “I see your point and I conceded to it. Very well, you may do as you see fit.”

“Mr. Archer, if you would please continue on the search without me,” Ben said.

“Yes, sir,” the watchman answered before hurrying away.

“As I said before, Major,” Smith said, “I will send my men to help with the search once they are done with their duties. I am not a callous man to not be concerned with a missing child, but this particular trade ship is carrying supplies that are needed for our armies beyond Boston. Winter is not kind, and so a day delayed in getting these to our men may mean more die from exposure to the cold than from British musket balls.”

* * *

_Later in the day..._

 

“Stay in bed, he says. Rest, he says. Yeah, well you're not my mother, Tall-boy,” Caleb muttered mostly to himself as he gingerly dodged two street urchins tearing down the side of the street with a split loaf of bread in their hands. “My mother was definitely not a handsome bloke like you. She was pretty and nicer about making sure I stayed in bed. Not 'I'm going to plant a hand on your bruised chest and push you back down'. Honestly, Ben, you need to work on your bedside manners. Your future wife would be as appalled as I am at the lack of comfort you give to the injured.”

His grumbles remained unanswered stopped and stared around the alleyway that was mostly empty except for those two children who had clearly stolen a loaf from the local baker and were making their mad escape to freedom. While there was no back entrance to any of the buildings that sat along the main street, it was about a block away from the burnt out seamstress shop. All who lived around here had evacuated – at least that was what Mrs. Freeman had hold him as soon as he had gotten up, eaten the meal left in the room, dressed himself, and went downstairs to help Ben and the others with the search.

Mrs. Freeman had of course, fussed over him, insisting that he shouldn't be moving so soon after he had just recovered, but a persistent memory that Caleb was sure was something he had seen and not been hallucinating. During the duration of his captivity wherever he had been, there had been some marked crates that looked similar to the ones that he had been moving from the warehouse. In his more lucid moment, for he still did not know what exactly his captors had been feeding him, he had managed to crack open a crate and _thought_ he had seen the shape of a small child of sorts, curled up and shivering. After that, the rest of his memories were a blur and of pain. He wasn't sure of what he had seen, but with David missing, he was very worried, and if it had been indeed, a child he had seen packed within a crate, then what was happening?

He had also ran into a man named Ethan Archer, who had apologized for his actions towards him the night before. Caleb had waved it off, for he really did not know what had happened last night, other than Ben and someone else had taken him to the Green Dragon Inn. Archer then gave him the details of what exactly had happened, and now, Caleb found himself slowly walking down alleyways near the burnt out section. In all of his time using Boston as a port-of-call during his whaling days, children went missing, but most children were of the frightened mind, and would try to find some place safe and small to hide in.

Some place such as a cellar... and this particular one that he stopped before had a lock on it. While it was usual to see locks on some cellar doors, especially for those which were tavern cellars, he crouched down and poked the lock with a finger. This particular one looked to be unusual – one that someone would find on irons, not on a cellar door. A most curious of things...and one that did not belong here.

Pulling out his hatchet, he glanced up and down the alleyway again before breaking the lock with a mighty swing of his hatchet. It shattered into two pieces as he winced in pain – his bandages tugging at the action, and his bruises still sending aching throbs across his body. Scattering the two pieces of the now-broken lock, he sheathed his hatchet and slowly opened the door. Peering inside, it was dark, but he could feel an oddly damp and moist breeze of air blowing _from_ the entrance into the cellar. While the wind above was gusting quite a bit, Caleb knew that cellars were supposed to have dead air and be relatively dry, if not a little damp at times.

Quietly, he slipped in, carefully placing his foot one after the other as he closed the cellar door, feeling the slippery steps threatening to make him fall. As soon as he felt solid but muddy ground beneath him, he paused and carefully listened, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. This felt exactly like being on a whaleboat again, carefully watching and waiting in the darkness for the beast of the sea to emerge.

In the distance, he thought he could hear the lapping of water crashing against the rocks, but beyond that, there seemed to be voices. Looking around as his eyes finally adjusted to the dank darkness, he couldn't help but grin to himself. Smuggling tunnels. These were smuggling tunnels, and by God, he had thought it to be a legend that those at the taverns around the area kept telling. Boston's best kept secret was not the 'sea monster' that lurked beneath the harbor, but the damn smuggling tunnels.

Had little David found a cellar leading into one and gotten lost here?

“Well,” he muttered to himself, pressing his hands together and rubbing them to get some warmth into them. “Let's hope that if there are people down here, they can point me in the right direction. After all, this is the black market's best kept secret.”

* * *

_At the schoolhouse..._

 

“Now, Mr. Hunter, would you please expand upon the initial answer that Miss Adams has so kindly provided and tell me _why_ you think that after a ten year siege, the Trojans would have readily so accepted the gift horse _without_ examining it?”

Ben had not imagined himself spending the day as an actual schoolmaster again, even though he was still in uniform, albeit his jacket and cloak was slung on the back of his desk chair. His sabre and unloaded pistol were sitting on top of the desk, with the musket ball tucked into one of the jacket's pockets.

He had opted not to wear his jacket while teaching, knowing that it would prove to be a visual distraction from their studies. The chill in the classroom was bearable, and he had taken to walking up and down the middle of the aisle to keep himself warm, and to keep the students from either drifting off to sleep or fidgeting too much as he conducted the day's lessons. It was something he didn't do too often while at Wethersfield, but he did find it helpful to walk around the schoolhouse on dreary days to keep the students from falling asleep.

“Sir,” the young man began, but a sudden loud _thump_ that seemingly came from underneath the schoolhouse startled everyone and caused the young man to fall silent.

Ben paused mid-stride, nearly at his desk as the sound was heard again, but before he could take any action, the _thump_ was heard again, accompanied swiftly by the sound of wood splitting. Several of the children nearest to the epicenter of the sound immediately scrambled and dove out of the way, just as the right back row of pews and desks upended. A figure emerged from what he had thought to be a sealed cellar entrance.

Eyes widening slightly at the sight of who exactly it was who had emerged from the depths of whatever was beneath the schoolhouse, he immediately closed the distance to his desk to snatch up his sabre. He was stopped though, with his hand hovering over the weapons laid out on top of the desk, when the familiar rasp of the hostage-taker's voice said, “Don't do that, Tallmadge.”

At the same time, he heard Lottie scream, “David!”

Turning slightly, he saw his eyes were not deceiving him – the disheveled man was Trevelyan, but with a completely different air about him – and the man was holding little David by the waist, slung on the left side of him like a sack of potatoes. The boy was unconscious, and Trevelyan was holding a rather large blade in his right hand that looked to be a long, wicked-looking hunting knife towards the boy's neck.

“Ah, ah,” Trevelyan warned, quickly turning around to ensure that no one, not even the tutors and other pupils tried to escape to stop him as he slowly backed towards the schoolhouse's entrance. Turning back towards Ben, the so-called schoolmaster-in-training then said, “Pass _only_ the pistol, Tallmadge, or else I kill the child.” As if to emphasize how serious he was, Trevelyan pressed the edge of the blade against David's neck, light enough to not fully sink in, but enough to draw a tiny trickle of blood.

“Don't!” Ben shouted, splaying his hands out towards the pupils, hoping that his actions would at least try to stop the more braver of the pupils, and a clearly frightened-looking Lottie from trying to reach Trevelyan and David. “All right,” he said, nodding towards Trevelyan, who was still slowly backing up. “Don't hurt him, Trevelyan...or whoever you are.”

As silence enveloped the schoolhouse, there was the occasional echoed shout of something else from down below, which gave everyone pause. However, at Trevelyan's insistent gesture, which was to continue to wave the knife in a threatening manner towards the young hostage, Ben slowly reached for his pistol, hoping that not only would the pupils keep silent about the fact that it was unloaded, but that those near the entrance to the schoolhouse would not do anything rash.

Early in the morning, when the pupils had finally settled down, Ben had withdrawn and unloaded the pistol in front of all of them – displaying the fact that if any of the more curious children managed to get to the weapon, their caretakers, tutors, and governesses would not panic over an accidental discharge of the weapon. Picking it up by the barrel, he held it up in a non-threatening way as he said, “I'm just going to go to the aisle and slide it towards you, yeah? We both don't want this to accidentally discharge if I throw it towards you and you don't catch it, right?”

“Do so,” Trevelyan said, before turning this way and that, holding the knife out to prevent any of the caretakers and tutors from coming any closer. A few backed away, while more than a few glanced over towards Ben, some of them openly frowning. Ben thought he saw one or two of them incline their head ever so slowly, realizing what Ben was intending to do.

The five steps that separated him and the beginning of the aisle of pews and desks seemed to take forever, but in those steps, he made sure to maintain eye contact with Trevelyan at all times, noting where the knife was at each moment that passed. Crouching down before he slid the pistol across the floor, he waited for a moment and just as the pistol came to a halt at the feet of Trevelyan, he snatched up the nearest hardbound book that belonged to one of the pupils and flung it with all of his might.

His aim was true as the book tumbled end-over-end and just as luck would have it, the spine of it crashed directly into the underside of Trevelyan's right arm, specifically at his wrist. The knife clattered to the floor just as a howl of pain escaped Trevelyan's lips while dropping David to the floor to clutch at his wrist. It was then that two tutors rushed towards Trevelyan, wrenching him away from the entrance and from David, forcing the man to the floor.

Ben was already sprinting down the aisle, snatching up both the pistol and knife. He unceremoniously clocked Trevelyan in the temple with the butt of his pistol, silencing the man and stopping his attempts to get free. By the time he turned around, Lottie had already rushed towards her brother, while Peggy Shippen had also reached the child. However, even with David now safe, there was still the matter of the hole in the floor and the sounds coming from it.

Lightly holding the knife, point facing down, in his left hand while his right held the unloaded pistol, he gestured for the students and their caretakers to stay back. Crouching near the hole, he thought he heard the sounds of a struggle and shouted down the hole, “Whoever else is down there, we have your man arrested. Come out peacefully and you may be granted clemency.”

There were some more sounds of struggle before he thought he heard a meaty sound that echoed through the underground cavern or cellar of sorts and then a familiar voice saying, “Ben?”

“Caleb?!” he asked, surprised.

“Huh, so that's where this particular entrance leads to,” Caleb casually said as a moment later, he saw his bushy-bearded friend appear below, peering up. “Was trying to help Archer and his boys find the boy. Ended up down here and chased two nobs trying to smuggle him somewhere.”

“Language, Caleb!” he admonished, “we have young children up here!”

His friend gave a bark of laughter before saying, “Can I assume that you managed to catch the one holding the child? The one I punched down here is someone I recognize from Smith's garrison forces. Seems like they were working together.”

Caleb's words send chills running through him, though the escaping heat of the schoolhouse and into this new hole in the ground was not helping. “Go fetch Colonel Rutherford of the main garrison,” he ordered, looking up and catching the eyes of one of the tutors who had helped him tackle Trevelyan. They had finished binding the man up with several leather belts that had formerly bound pupils' books together.

“Sir,” the tutor smartly answered and left, slamming the schoolhouse door after him.

It was not only the fact that Caleb had named someone associated with the central docks garrison commander, Smith, but also the fact that his friend had mentioned chasing _around_ and not just in the supposedly flooded cellar. That meant that there was a network of tunnels of sorts in the area. “Caleb, how did you get down there and how far does this tunnel network extend?”

“Most of it is collapsed or flooded, Benny-boy,” Caleb answered, his voice echoing faintly for a moment before he heard him grunt. There was also the sound of something heavy being dragged across wooden floors before his friend's voice came back stronger, saying, “Found the entrance a block away from the that burnt-out seamstress shop. Thought that the boy might've gotten scared and hid down in a cellar or something. Found this instead, and from the looks of it, it looks like our intrepid kidnappers also got lost and couldn't find their way out.”

Ben peered over the lip of hole again, and saw Caleb hauling an unconscious man to the rickety, old ladder that Trevelyan had used to climb up and out after he had broken through the schoolhouse floor. He too recognized the man to be one of Smith's guards that he had met on the first day at the docks. Unfortunately, he was not able to question Caleb any further as doors to the schoolhouse burst open.

Scrambling up, he managed to stop himself from saying anything he would regret as he saw Smith of all people stroll through the door, with a complement of soldiers accompanying him. “Major Smith,” he greeted as neutrally as he could.

“Major Tallmadge,” Smith said, gesturing for his men to haul Trevelyan up. “I happened to be reporting to Colonel Rutherford when a young tutor came flying down the street on a horse. He kindly informed both of us of what had happened. I truly did not expect this to be such an interesting day, not especially after what happened this morning. The Colonel is outside at the moment, collecting the full report of the day's events from the fellow named Ethan Archer. I have been asked to fetch this filth... and what is this about a man of mine?”

“Here, sir,” he said, stepping to the side and gestured towards the hole in the floor. “Lieutenant Brewster was helping Mr. Archer with the search.”

Smith peered over the edge and frowned, saying, “My guardsman.”

“Yes, sir,” he confirmed.

“It seems that the last vestiges of corruption is still lingering,” the garrison commander said, stepping back. “Had I known of Corporal Graham's illicit activities, then I would have already put a stop to it and this would have never happened. The fault is mine, Major. But because we are still fighting for our freedoms, the democratic process still must take place and each man will be accorded their due time in a fair court. I will, of course, need to take statements from everyone present, even from the pupils here.”

“As you wish, sir,” Ben answered, though he could not help but feel that though Smith's words sounded sincere, something was terribly off about them.

* * *

_Nightfall, Central Piers..._

 

“Are you sure that the smuggling tunnels have been completely sealed for now, Mr. Alexander?”

“Yes, I am,” the 'merchant' of all things exotic and strange for various tastes, Jack Alexander, answered with a rather enormous sweep of his hat. “If you want, I can have my boys return and plant barrels of gunpowder to explode and collapse them in a permanent manner of those hounds get a little too close.”

“No,” Smith answered. “I have another job for you and while I commend you on sacrificing your own man, Trevelyan, on this attempt to discredit Tallmadge, he will not last a day in court. His bravado in the face of such accusations will fall once he faces the public. I need you to dispose of both Corporal Graham and Richard Trevelyan.”

The man hesitated for a moment before inclining his head ever so slightly, saying, “It will be done... for a price of course.”

“Of course. Any of the ones that do not make it on the ship by tomorrow morning is free for your taking.” Smith tapped his fingers together for a few moments before saying, “Tallmadge and the others will no longer sniff at our heels, and with the latest shipment of our precious cargo headed off on the _Labyrinth_ tomorrow, all we need to do is to lay low for a bit before we can safely resume our operations. You may even be freer to sell your protective services, now that the populace here has had a good scare and know that they cannot depend on the watchmen for protection.”

“Then I shall take my leave and bid you a good night, Major,” Alexander said, sweeping quite low in his bow before straightening and leaving.

 

~*~*~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit, I was replaying a little too much Assassin's Creed III during the writing of this particular chapter. Also, fun historical note: the Samuel Phillips, Jr. that schoolmaster Archibald James mentions is the same real-life Samuel Phillips, Jr, founder of Phillips Andover Academy. That school was established in 1778.


	20. Extras: Boston, Not Legal (Pt. 3)

**Extras: Boston, Not Legal (Pt. 3)**

 

“They're _both_ dead?”

“Yes, sir,” the young enlisted man nervously answered, almost hopping from one foot to the other.

“When, Corporal Lennard? When did you and the others here discover this?”

“Um, only about thirty minutes ago, sir. Last we checked upon them was around midnight. They were still alive then.”

What Ben held back and tried not to express freely, Archer did by running his hands over his face and hair before sighing quite loudly in frustration and irritation. Instead, Ben said, “Go, corporal. Go inform and fetch Colonel Rutherford.”

“Yes, sir,” the young man said, knuckling his forehead and quickly left.

“Their deaths seems a little too convenient, Ben,” he heard Caleb mutter from beside him, also looking as annoyed as Archer did.

It had only been two days since the arrest of Trevelyan and Smith's guardsman, Graham. Initial questioning by Rutherford's men had yielded no information – the two men had maintained their silence, even with defense lawyers present. Scrutinized searches through Boston's educational board's meeting minutes, along with Trevelyan's application to be a schoolmaster in the city had shown that the application was forged and his credentials completely falsified. Whoever had done the forgery was a master at it – good enough to fool even the members of school board.

“Yes, they do,” he agreed, before gesturing to another of the men guarding the cell areas, saying, “Let us see them.”

“Yes, sir.”

The three of them were led further into the cell area, smelling death and things that the body vacated upon death first before they actually got to the cell. When they finally arrived at the cell that contained the body of Trevelyan, Ben held back a sigh that he wanted to let loose. Trevelyan was laying haphazardly upon the wooden plank that was his bed and seat. Vomit, along with liquid fecal matter and covered the man and the plank he had died upon, with the stench of it quite overwhelming. Trevelyan's mouth was open, but there seemed to be a glazed look upon his death that was quite unsettling to look at. There was a bowl of barely touched food of moldy cheese and bread, along with a cup of water.

“Has a doctor determined the cause of death yet?” he asked, breathing as shallowly as he could in the face of such an awful smell.

“Not yet, sir. Timothy, he's gone and fetch for one, sir,” the young man answered.

“Well, so much for justice,” he heard Archer murmur in frustration and anger, and he couldn't help but silently agree.

* * *

_A few days later, at the Northern piers..._

 

The squawking of the seagulls calling to each other, along with fighting for the scraps of food was a welcomed distraction for his troubling thoughts. Doctors had determined that the cause of death for Trevelyan and Graham was aconite, or known as wolf's bane; and that it had been delivered via the dry form that was crushed and mixed into the food that had been served to them. No apothecary within Boston or its surroundings was known to sell such a poison, and thus the investigation into Trevelyan and Graham became a dead end.

Another dead end had also been erected when Rutherford's men had tried to search underground in the smuggling tunnel systems, only to find that many areas were blocked by cave-ins or completely flooded and impassable. The only route that was viable had been the one that Caleb had entered through, and even then, it seemed that Trevelyan and Graham were never going to make it out, for the only way out was through the schoolhouse's sealed exit.

There was also the matter of what Caleb had told him about the fuzziest of memories he had while being held captive somewhere where he knew not. His friend had apparently been knocked out while working at the warehouse during that first morning of carrying out Ben's request. However, the fuzzy memory that Caleb had described to him, about possibly seeing a child within a crate worried him. He had no more excuses to give to even hope to approach the Central docks garrison in any capacity.

But since the abduction and rescue of David Sackett, there had been no other mention of children, urchin or otherwise, being abducted. Even Archer had stated that it was unusual for a few days to pass without any sort of kidnapping to happen within the city. It seemed that the city was content to be silent and not rife with unusual crimes for the time being.

“Care for some fish, sir?”

Ben looked down from staring at the cloudy horizon to see that the fisherman he had been standing next to for the better part of a half-hour, tilting the long-brimmed hat he was wearing up slightly while offering up a caught fish by the tail that had been plucked from his bucket. Though the weak winter sun was trying its best to shine though the thick clouds, it took a moment for him to recognize the man under the simple fish monger outfit that he was wearing. “Commander Creighton?” he questioned, hoping that he had identified the man correctly, along with his rank.

“Ah, so you do remember me, Major Tallmadge,” Creighton said, tilting his straw hat back a little further with the same hand that held the wiggling fish. Dropping the fish back into the bucket, the United States Naval Intelligence officer continued to say, “It's been a while since we last met. I didn't realize that General Washington sent you up here. How's Boston treating you?”

“Things in Boston have been, well... quite interesting lately,” he answered, deciding that it was unnecessary to explain exactly why Washington had sent him to the city. “If you don't mind me asking, what are you doing here, sir? Last I heard, you were returning to your submersible and that submersible is under Boston Harbor.”

“The _Winter_ is currently offshore up north,” Creighton said. “Captain Mendez took her to a less populated area to resupply and allow the crew to get some fresh air. I'm here to keep an eye on things, and if necessary, call them back immediately.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding. “When are they due to return?”

“Within a few days. For now, I'm enjoying myself with some fresh-caught Boston Harbor fish that's not full of pollutants, and a discreet visit to see what my hometown looked like back in the day.”

“Oh, you're from around here?” he asked.

“Salem,” Creighton answered with a wistful look upon his face. Ben remained silent as the name of the town that was just north of Boston triggered a memory that he could not quite place. It had something to do with what happened in the past few days. He had heard of the town being mentioned plenty of times by the locals, but it was the context that it was mentioned that niggled at him. “Something the matter, Major?”

“No, sir,” he answered after a moment, realizing that his expression had turned into a frown. “Sorry, sir, it's just that your hometown's name made me think of something to do with what's been happening in the city lately.”

“Oh, the abduction of a young boy?” Creighton asked though it sounded more like a statement than a question. “I heard about that. Weren't the two abductors murdered?”

“They were,” he began, then as the memory of where and why Salem was important came to him. “The abductors tried to use a system of somewhat flooded and blocked smuggling tunnels to flee to wherever they were going with the child. The local watchmen and those of the commander of the main garrison's people who searched the tunnels afterwards found that most areas had been sealed up. Lieutenant Brewster suspects that some of the tunnels were sealed just recently, as if there were people trying to cover the two abductors' tracks. I hate to ask you or Captain Mendez's crew of this, but is there any way you can tell us if there are any other possible entrances or exits that are not sealed? We have been trying to figure out where the abductors may have tried to taken the boy, had they've been successful in escaping.”

“Sonar mapping,” Creighton said, nodding slightly, to which Ben did not understand the terminology behind it, but given the context, it sounded as if it were a way to give him the information he needed. “I can ask, but there's no guarantee that Captain Mendez will acquiesce to the request, even if she is my wife. Our Armed Forces High Command, or what's left of it, may not be here in this era, but we're under strict orders from them to not interfere with anything happening unless there's imminent danger to a very large portion of the populace.”

“I... understand,” he said, trying his best to keep the disappointment from coloring his tone.

“Even if I convince Captain Mendez to do this, it will take a few weeks to process the information, sir,” the officer said. “The submersible's not exactly equipped in a fashion to map out an underground network of caves and tunnels. We'll have to reconfigure a few things, so either way, you're going to have to wait.”

“Well, things are quiet for now,” he said, nodding. “I still need to go to Lexington to carry out General Washington's orders, so I will be away from the city for a while. Thank you, sir, for at least listening to my request.”

“You're welcome, Major Tallmadge. I wish you the best of luck in your duties here and in Lexington,” Creighton said.

* * *

_A few weeks later..._

 

“Well, they were cheerful bunch,” Caleb groused as both he and Ben slowly guided their horses through the crowded streets of Boston. With signs of spring already showing through small buds on the trees, even though there was still mushy snow on the ground, the citizens of the city and its surroundings seemed to have started waking up from their long hibernation. The fullness of spring would be upon them soon, and with that, Ben expected that he and Caleb would be soon recalled down to Morristown with the Boston numbers.

“I'm just glad that it didn't get any farther than that,” he answered as they caught sight of a familiar swinging sign of the Green Dragon Inn up ahead.

“Well, home sweet home, eh Benny-boy?” Caleb said, looking a bit more cheerful as Ben felt his stomach rumble a bit in hunger.

He grinned and a few minutes later, they reached the inn. Getting off their horses, a couple of stable boys ran up to them and while Caleb tossed a few coins at them as they led their horses to the back of the Inn to be fed, watered, and bedded, Ben made sure to take the twine-bound packet of folded notes and his encrypted notebook out of a saddlebag before the boys took the horses. He knew that the boys would bring their packs and saddlebags up later, but out of safety and precaution, he dared not leave any sort of troop information with anyone else. They entered the Inn to find the first floor completely full of patrons and quite noisy.

“Hey!” Caleb exclaimed, throwing his arms wide open as their entrance into the Inn caught the attention of Mrs. Freeman, who had finished refilling a customer's mug.

“Ah, welcome back!” Mrs. Freeman said, giving them a wide smile as she came over and embraced Caleb as if he were her son long returned from an arduous journey. Ben only had moments to compose himself as she let Caleb go and also embraced him in the same manner, offering him a warm and inviting smile as she pulled back. “I would ask both of you how was Lexington, but as you see here, we're quite busy right now. Your room is still open and I'll have the boys take your bags up to there. However, Caleb, you seem to have an acquaintance waiting for you upstairs for the past two days. Says that he was an associate of yours back in your days on the _Giselle_?”

“Oh,” Caleb said, eyes lighting up. “Upstairs?”

“Yes, dearie,” Mrs. Freeman answered. “Didn't give me his name though. But nevertheless, I'll send up some supper in a few minutes. Gordon is busy cooking another batch for the fellows down here, so I'll let him know to serve both of you some.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Freeman,” he said as Caleb echoed the sentiment before charging up the stairs, eager to meet an old crewmate from his whaling days.

He followed his friend at a more leisurely pace, but when he got upstairs, he found Caleb peering around, looking slightly confused. “Huh,” he heard him mutter. “Don't see anyone that I recognize from the _Giselle_.”

Frowning slightly, he too looked around, and though most of the tables on the second floor were empty, there were a couple that were occupied. His eyes stopped at a particular person as he recognized the lone man sitting at the table, wearing a familiar outfit. It was the same outfit he remembered that the man wore when he had first met him at Washington's office in Morristown when he and Mrs. Sackett had arrived. There was a shallow bowl of stew and a mug of ale sitting in front of him. The man looked up from his supper and merely gave both of them a rather cheerful wave of his hand.

“It seems that we have a visitor from the future instead, Caleb,” he said, clapping him on the back before gesturing towards where Commander Creighton was sitting.

He heard Caleb give a very audible sigh as he passed him, hearing him mutter, “The one crew and ship that I actually liked whaling with, and it turns out to not be true.”

“Maybe next time, Caleb,” he said sympathizing with him, as he approached. Creighton stood up from where he was sitting, placing the napkin that had been on his lap down. “Commander,” he greeted, extending a hand out to shake Creighton's own.

“Major Tallmadge,” the officer greeted in the same respectful tone, before offering Caleb and apology, saying, “I apologize for the deception, Lieutenant Brewster, but given the nature of my being here, I didn't want to attract too much attention. Therefore, I dug around the harbormasters' logs and did some research on your particular adventures in whaling for this cover.”

Caleb shrugged as Creighton gestured for both of them to sit down, to which they did. “Didn't know that the harbormasters kept logs for that long.”

“They don't,” Creighton answered, “at least not out in public. Had to go raid the garrison office for stuff dating back to the days when you were still a whaler.”

“You _broke_ into Colonel Rutherford's office?” Ben asked, quite baffled and shocked that of all people, an officer of the future United States Navy would do such a thing.

“Well, after what we found and correlated to the news of those kidnappers being murdered, breaking into the garrison commander's office is nothing,” the officer answered before glancing over towards the stairs to see Mrs. Freeman climbing up with a tray of two stews and ales in her hands. As the woman set the stews and ales on the table, Creighton remained silent until she left and was well on her way down to the first floor. “I have a map for you, but this is the extent that I and the crew of the _Winter_ will be interfering with your investigation, Major. You're free to ask as many questions as you want, sir, but once I leave this Inn...”

Ben, nodded in understanding and saw him take out a folded piece of parchment and hand it over to him. While Caleb took a swig of his ale before starting to eat, Ben pushed his own bowl slightly away as he unfolded the parchment. There were two sheets folded together, both looking the same with multiple squiggles that denoted what he could only interpret as tunnels running into and around the city, and along the coast. Tide height tables for the tunnels were also listed. However, the top most map had some areas seemingly sectioned off with small dark squares at some junctures, while the second map had those same junctures exposed. Both maps, though, had many of the tunnels leading towards a particular area in the city – right near the central piers.

“If ever a damning evidence as I see it now,” he couldn't help but mutter. “Why are there two maps, sir?” he asked in a louder tone.

“The first is the initial scan of the tunnels that our sonar mapping found,” Creighton answered, taking a sip of his ale as Caleb reached out and Ben handed him the first map. “The second was reported by the technician only a few days ago – apparently, it seems that whatever was blocking the tunnels in the initial scans was removed.”

“Major Smith claims not to know that his guardsman engaged in such an illegal activity,” he said, handing over the second map to his friend as he picked up his mug of ale and took a sip. “I think these proves he's lying. There is no way a man so meticulous and detailed in nature, especially when it comes to taking down manifests and cargo shipments would not know of such activities within his own dominion.”

“If you don't mind me asking, sir, how so? How does these two pieces of parchment, in which if you decide to present it in a court-martial, prove that Major Joshua Smith is lying?” the intelligence officer asked. “No one currently of this era in Massachusetts has that capability to extensively map such an underground network, and even if they did, cartographers would deny doing such a thing. Lieutenant Brewster here should know of the stigma attached to smugglers and to the black market.”

“I have not said a word to confirm or deny anything about this so-called black market,” Caleb said, immediately holding up his hands, as if that would help prove his innocence, though there was the cheekiest of grins on his face as he said his words.

“A word of advice to you, Major Tallmadge,” Creighton continued, giving Caleb a dubious look before refocusing his attention on Ben. “If you're going to go around accusing a highly influential and wealthy officer, such as Smith, with out solid proof of his illicit activities, you'll get burned.”

“So you're saying that I need to catch Smith in the act?” he asked. “There are so many tunnels here on this map that it would be impossible to catch any who utilize these in the act. Neither of us can even approach the warehouses without Smith becoming suspicious. I already have what I need from him and Caleb here was already caught... wait, Caleb, did you not say that the only memory you have of your time in captivity has something to do with crates?”

“Yeah?” Caleb answered, grinning at the same time as he did, realizing what they needed to do to get proof that despite the death of the two smugglers, the operation was still alive, and that Smith, for all of his silky words, was complicit in it.

“We're going to have to time this correctly,” he said, gesturing to the maps. “Do you think you can go find a friendly harbormaster to give us tide charts for the next few days?”

“Do I think?” Caleb asked, his grin becoming a full-blown smile. “Tall-boy, who do you think you're talking to? Of course I can do that, though I can tell you now that from what Commander Creighton has given us – which thank you, sir, you and your crew are geniuses – best time for us will be this Sunday, just before eleven in the morning.”

“I'll be sure to give Captain Mendez that compliment, Lieutenant,” Creighton said, inclining his head slightly.

Ben made a non-committal noise at the back of his throat as an idea formed in his mind. “Just after morning service then,” he said, taking another sip of his ale, “I believe that a certain Mr. Archer would be willing to help us accomplish this task, lest there be any false accusations of us outsiders being biased with an agenda against native Bostonians. Now, all we have to do is choose a tunnel that will hopefully be empty, after all, does not the Bible state that the Sabbath is a day of rest? Surely Major Smith would not be such a cruel man to deny a day of rest for his soldiers.”

* * *

_A couple of days later, at First Church..._

 

“Don't turn now, but you won't believe who attended service this morning, Lottie,” Lottie heard Nabby whisper into her ear, with Nabby's giggles nearly garbling the words.

She turned slightly and to her delight and surprise that made her heart flutter a little faster, she saw the striking profile of Major Tallmadge in his uniform at the far end of the church. It looked as if he were in a light conversation with a few other men who went to the morning service, including the now-recovered Mr. James. Though the circumstances could have been much better, it had been an extremely pleasant surprise all those weeks ago to have had Tallmadge as an acting schoolmaster. Of course, she had been worried sick about her little brother, but both her mother and governess had insisted that she continued to attend classes. Both of them had been more serious than she had ever seen either of them behave before, and thus, even with a nearly sleepless night of worrying where little David was, she had obeyed them.

Her obedience to her mother and Miss Shippen was rewarded by God with both the appearance of the officer as a temporary schoolmaster, and the rescue of her brother from the hands of the false and devilish schoolmaster, Mr. Trevelyan. That tense and terrifying situation involving her brother at the schoolhouse was something she found oddly thrilled by. While she knew that what she felt was not normal, not by any standards, for the schoolhouse was closed for at least a week and everyone sent home to be individually tutored until carpenters could repair the floor, the memory of what had happened was still quite clear in her head.

Unlike Nabby, she did not try to block the memory of Trevelyan's twisted and devilish expression, the fearlessly calm look that Major Tallmadge wore, and all of the action that had happened to rescue David. Instead, it only made her grow ever more fonder of the young officer that her father was friends with. But, she had yet to work up the courage to ask her mother permission to write to him, and to also ask him herself, for she was impatient enough to not wait for him to initiate correspondence as tradition dictated.

“I thought he attended the evening services?” she questioned, tilting her head slightly, for it didn't escape her notice that many of the other young, unattached women who regularly attended morning service had also noticed Tallmadge's presence.

“Does your mother even know that you've been following him?” Nabby asked in a slightly exasperated tone. “At this rate, you might want to start writing him without her permission, before these other eligible women, including your governess, start writing him.”

“Miss Shippen has clearly stated that she has no interest in him,” she immediately said, unable to keep the indignation she felt out of her tone. As if to prove her point, she gestured towards the cluster of young men who were crowded around her governess. Among those men was Major Smith, whom she had noticed that ever since David had been rescued, Smith's appearance at the shop, specifically to visit Margaret had increased. Lottie herself wasn't fond of Smith, finding him a little too overbearing in politeness and the way he seemed to treat both Margaret and her as if they were porcelain dolls. While it seemed that her governess tolerated it, she didn't, and usually found an excuse to not be present whenever Smith was present to further his attempt at courting Miss Shippen.

She knew for certain that her governess was a very lovely-looking woman, and the fact that Tallmadge showed absolutely no interest in Margaret gave her hope. Perhaps the officer was interested in a woman who did not garner attention as her governess did, after all she had taken a peek inside of the notebook that he had been writing in on that day where he had been out of uniform and observing Mr. James' lessons. It had given her some very interesting insight into the officer that she dared not share with anyone else, even with Nabby or her brother.

It had been accidental, but when Mr. James had unlocked the schoolhouse after the containment of the seamstress shop fire to allow both her and her governess to see if any clues could be found to the whereabouts of David, she had found Tallmadge's belongings haphazardly scattered at a corner of the schoolhouse. One of those was the notebook that Tallmadge had been writing in. While she had hurriedly cleaned up the small mess, the page that she had seen with the notes written in the notebook was heavily encrypted. That had greatly surprised her, and caused her to think back on his comment to her during that night he and Lieutenant Brewster had supped with her family – had her father also taught him how to encrypt? While the encryption was not a form that she was familiar with, there were elements of it that she recognized by the virtue of having seen her father write in the ledgers and missives back when they had been living in London.

That thought had brought a small smile to her in the face of such grief, and by the looks of just how unbreakable the encrypted contents of the notebook were, it told her that Tallmadge was of or nearly the same mindset as her father. It was then little wonder why he had not reacted as she thought he would, when she had freely discussed her encryption of her journals. She knew that her mother wanted her to live and do as normal women her age did, and why her mother returned from her short trip to Morristown with a governess in tow. But she could not give up the thrill of running around, of being free to act as she wanted, and to do what most women normally did not. Perhaps winning the attention and heart of Major Tallmadge required her to compromise her ideals of adventure with the sensibilities of a woman, and if it did, then she would gladly do so, for she had found herself thinking about him every day since that dinner.

“Ah, if only you were as confident as your mother in approaching him,” Nabby spoke up, shaking her out of her reverie only to see that indeed, her friend's words were correct. Little David was clutching their mother's hands quite tightly in a stubborn manner, and the lighthearted expression on Tallmadge briefly disappeared as she saw him take what she thought was his copy of the Bible but most likely not, and give it to her.

Her curiosity at such a gesture was piqued as he then left after saying his farewells to those around him. Something about his unusual appearance at the morning service, coupled by whatever he had given to her mother told her that something strange was happening. “Your mother said that you have the day free to do whatever you wanted, right?” she asked as she noticed the disappointed looks upon many of the other young women's expression – all who had most likely hoped that their attempts to garner Tallmadge's attention had fallen flat.

“Within reason, Lottie,” Nabby cautioned, audibly sighing.

“It'll be fun,” she said. “Please?”

She saw her friend shake her head slightly before saying, “The things I put up with... you're not a child anymore, Lottie. When will you start acting like a proper lady?”

“I promise, this will be the last time,” she said, grinning.

“You said that the last time,” Nabby began, but then split her lips into a wide grin, “but it's anything for the man you love, is it not?”

“Thank you!” she gleefully said, taking her friend's hands into her own and briefly squeezed them in appreciation for what her friend put up with. “Come on!”

* * *

_Near the Boston Commons..._

 

“I didn't see anything,” Caleb heard Archer declare just as he swung the hatchet down on the lock and broke it.

“Of course you didn't,” he casually answered, giving the watchman a reassuring grin, sheathing his hatchet as he scattered the lock and swung open the door. With most of the residents in the city attending Sunday morning services, the streets and alleyways were fairly empty, making it the most ideal of times to carry out this task. “All right,” he said, rubbing his hands together, feeling the damp and cool sea breeze wafting up from the reopened tunnels. “Time to go hunting.”

“Is this safe?” Archer cautiously asked. “Shouldn't we have torches or at least a lantern?”

“Number one rule of smuggling,” he said, glancing back as he stepped down into the cellar-turned-tunnel, resisting the urge to sigh and shake his head, “is to never give yourself away, no matter where you are.”

The sound of running footsteps approaching the alleyway where they were caused both of them to look up, but before Caleb could fully extract himself from half-way descending into the hole, Ben appeared from the corner. “Sorry I'm late,” his friend said as he approached.

“Yeah, well, you didn't miss anything yet, Tall-boy,” he said, cautiously lowering himself again as he heard Archer also start to descend. Ben was the last to enter the cellar-turned-tunnel, and moments later, carefully closed the doors behind them, plunging them into darkness. He felt Archer bump into him, as he paused at the foot of the half-earthen stairs, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

A few minutes later, he resumed descending and soon, the three of them were standing on solid but damp ground. He could hear the waves crash and lap parts of the extensive hive of tunnels that ran all over the city, but there was a particular route that he had memorized from the maps that they would be taking. They didn't have much time as low tide was almost upon them, and with how close and shallow the particular tunnel he had chose for their route ran next to the harbor, they needed they move quickly.

“Smith was present at this morning's service,” he heard Ben whisper. “Last I saw of him, he was among those men conversing with Miss Shippen. We should be good for the next hour.”

“Ah, the lovely Miss Shippen,” he couldn't help but murmur as a smirk quirked up the edges of his lips. “Maybe we should thank her later for being such a beautiful distraction to the Major and allowing us to investigate his warehouses without his knowledge.”

“Caleb,” was all he heard from his friend, hearing the clear annoyance and warning in his tone.

“But that's for later,” he chuckled. “All right, you landlubbers, follow and step where I step. We're going to have to be fast if we don't want to be caught by the tide.”

He didn't even deign to wait for any word of acknowledgment from the two before setting off, jogging at a careful but fast enough pace that wouldn't allow their boots to get stuck in the sandy muck that the partial floorboards in this cellar had given away to. He could smell the tang of the salty seawater, along with the tar-like smell of gunpowder residue that clung to the ceiling of the tunnels, indicating that more than a few rifles and pistols had been discharged throughout the tunnels. Whether it had been by rival smuggling groups or because authorities had found them out, he didn't know and didn't care. He had Ben's promise of immunity from prosecution or arrest by doing this, along with Archer's vouching that what they were doing was for the betterment of the city.

Their footsteps splashed through shallow puddles of water that had been left behind when the tide had been receding. He could see a faint amount of light at the end of the current route they were taking, twisting and turning along stone walls that were smooth from the cold water dribbling down, and covered in a lot of lichen and moss. As the sandy, muddy ground gave way to more smooth and slippery stone, the sounds of waves crashing against the shore and rocks were also starting to become louder.

“Watch your steps, boys,” he said, just as he heard Archer yelp slightly, hearing the watchman scrabble slightly on the stone.

The three of them burst out into a rather enormous stone cavern that had been carved from the sheer amount of water that was pushed into this area when the tide was at its highest. There were multiple entrances on the far side of the cavern, all leading to different routes and areas. However, the one that they needed to take was the most treacherous one, and from what he could see, it would involve hopping over several small islands of rocks that were currently being exposed by low tide.

There was not a lot of time before the tide would start rising again, and with time against them, Caleb could only hope that they made it to the warehouses before the tide could flood into the tunnels.

* * *

Lottie kicked the small pebble down the street as a cool breeze from the harbor blew and whipped her cloak and dress slightly to the side. She was disappointed not only with herself but the fact that for all of their running around, neither she nor Nabby had been able to find a hide or hair of Major Tallmadge. Last she had seen him after he had departed from First Church was him heading towards the Commons. He had disappeared into an alleyway, but by the time she and her friend had caught up and peeked into the alleyway, there was no sign.

Now, with nothing else to do, and both of them looking quite flushed enough that there would be inquisitive questions peppered at them by those of their Sunday sewing circle if they returned to the church, she and Nabby were walking along the harbor-side street next to the central docks. A few others, couples mostly though there were occasionally a young family also there, were also strolling along the harbor-side street – taking in the wonderful day. It wasn't too cold, but it wasn't warm either, just the perfect day to stay out a few hours and enjoy the weather.

“I wonder what it is like, across the ocean,” she heard Nabby say as she glanced back to see her friend stop and turn to stare out into the grey-blue expanse. “I wonder if the King has even given a thought to the men he had sent here, of all the families on both sides of the war that he has torn apart because he will not give us our natural freedoms and rights.”

As much as she wanted to tell her friend that the King did not care, there was a certain melancholy within her friend's tone that caused her to keep her mouth shut. With Nabby's father appointed as an ambassador to France to help the illustrious Benjamin Franklin with the task, she knew that Nabby was missing him. Her own father was far away, writing infrequently to them, and busy with his own tasks, but he was at least on the same continent as she was. Nabby's father was an ocean away and surrounded by all things foreign.

The silence that fell between them as she kicked yet another rock into the harbor was shattered with the sounds of marching footsteps, along with the familiar voice of Major Smith murmuring something startled both of them out of their reverie. Lottie glanced up and looked over to see Smith and a few other soldiers of his garrison who had attended this morning's service at the church walking rapidly down the street. It was not Smith's pace that concerned her, but the expression that the man carried did. It was similar to the twisted, angry expression that she remembered seeing upon Mr. Trevelyan's face when he had appeared in the schoolhouse, holding David hostage.

Demurring just as Smith and his soldiers passed both of them by, she caught the tail end of Smith's words, as he said, “... persistent, but this is the last time that he'll ever bother us. He had his chance to bask in glory at the schoolhouse, but no more...”

As Smith's words faded away, she looked up with wide eyes towards Nabby, who had a clear frown on her face. Looking towards where the soldiers were going down the plank and to the piers, she wondered what was happening, but Smith's words worried her. While she wasn't sure what was going on-- “Ow!” she said, as she felt Nabby's rather sharp elbow at her side.

“Lottie,” Nabby nervously said, pointing towards where two simply-dressed men, familiar to their eyes, were running towards Smith. However, the two men were not accosting the officer, but rather, one had pointed in their general direction, and at that moment, Lottie realized two things. The first was that the two men were the same two men that she and her friend had spotted following Major Tallmadge all those weeks ago. The second thing was that Smith was familiar with the men, and they in turn were familiar with him – had it been Smith who had ordered two ordinary-looking men to follow Tallmadge? Was Smith behind those men who kept persistently bothering her family with their 'protective' services? Had Smith involved himself within the kidnapping of her brother in order to try to force said 'protective' services upon them?

“Nabby,” she realized as dread welled up in her stomach, seeing Smith glance towards them before turning and continuing down the pier. The two men turned towards them and started to advance. “Run!”

* * *

“Here we are, mates,” Ben heard Caleb say as they finally stopped at what he could only perceive as a wooden ladder along the stone walls that led up to what he hoped were the warehouses. They had caught the tide at the right moment to cross a few treacherous areas, but were not fast enough to not catch the rising tide and had been slogging through ankle deep cold sea water for the last ten minutes.

“Up, up and away,” he muttered to himself as he started climbing, feeling and hearing the wood creak and groan under his weight. He hoped that it would hold, as he carefully took hold of the iron ring above him and pushed the hatch open with some fore behind it. It groaned, but after a few moments, gave way and he climbed up a little further to push it fully open.

He could feel the ladder underneath him shift as both Archer and Caleb started to climb. Peeking out, all he saw was the dark hues of crates surrounding him. He could hear nothing of the sort except for the lapping of waves against the pier's posts and the distant echoes of squawking seagulls. Climbing all the way out, he kept his profile as low as possible as he ducked and crept towards one of the crates, unholstering his pistol as he held it in his right hand.

Archer and Caleb joined him a few moments later, with the latter quietly closing the hatch. Though it was dimly lit in the warehouse, there was still enough light to see letters burned into the sides of the crates. “Anything?” he whispered to Caleb.

“Somewhat familiar, Ben,” Caleb answered, looking around as Ben noticed that Archer was nervously switching his pistol from one hand to the other. “Let's crack open some crates and see what we have, yeah?”

Ben took Caleb's offered pistol and held it for him as he saw his friend take his hatchet out and jam the sharp edge underneath the seam where the side met the cover. There was the awful creak and wrench of wood being ripped apart from nestled wood as his friend forced the thing to open. After what felt like a few loud minutes of prying the crate open, the cover finally flew off, clattering to the ground as it revealed its contents – polished rifles that were to be delivered down south to the Continental Army.

He saw his friend glance back at him, shrugging before moving on to another crate – this one oblong and rectangular. Considering the squatness of it, Ben was fairly certain that it contained more rifles, Pennsylvania ones from what was marked on the box. It was odd, seeing a shipment of Pennsylvania rifles, when they were not commonly used, since they were harder to produce and maintain than regular flintlocks. The same method that Caleb used to pry off the first one was done to the second, but just as the cover was ripped off, an awful smell wafted up from the box.

“Christ on a pony,” he heard Caleb whisper in horror.

Ben tried to hold his breath as both he and Archer stepped up, but that breath was let go as his eyes widened in shock at what exactly was contained in the oblong crate. There was a child, raggedly dressed, looking like skin and bones, curled within the crate with his eyes closed. He thought the child was dead, but a moment later, there was a very faint movement of the child's chest – the child was barely breathing.

“Oh God,” Archer whispered, as Ben heard the man retch, turning away from the sight.

“Quick, Caleb,” he said, holstering his pistol as he gave his friend a look to start prying open any other crates in the area that looked like the one they had found this child in. There was no way that Smith and his people did not know they were transporting children of all things – the man was too meticulous of a bookkeeper to not have known about this. However, before he could even reach the child, and Caleb could react, there was an awful creak coming from the side of the warehouse. The large doors were wrenched open, spilling light into the musty, foul-smelling warehouse.

The three of the hurriedly scattered and hid behind a few stacks of crates as the footsteps and angry voices filled the air. “Same sweep as the others,” he heard Major Smith of all people order, before the man shouted, “We know you're there! Come out peacefully!”

Ben pressed himself against the crates he was hiding again, seeing Caleb across from him, with the opened crate of empty flintlocks between them, and the crate containing the child next to that. He had managed to unholster his pistol again and held it up, while Caleb had one of Sackett's modified blunderbuss out in lieu of his pistol and hatchet and was cradling the barrel with a hand. He gave a slight nod towards the general direction where Smith and his men were – the three of them were obviously not in the first warehouse, but it seemed that Smith and the others had swept a few other warehouses to have gotten a routine down. He glanced back to see Archer peeking out from another stack of crates, giving him a questioning look.

“Sir, we captured her!” another soldier said, as his hurried footsteps _plonk_ ed on the weathered wood.

“What about the other one?”

“Still on the run. We should have her too in a few minutes.”

“Good. I have an invitation from Mrs. Cochran to attend to in an hour and I shan't be late,” he heard Smith say. “You will take over and if you capture anyone else, detain and hold them at the warehouses until I return tonight.” A few moments later, Ben heard the sounds of a young girl yelling through a gag that had been tied around her mouth, while the sounds of Smith's men carefully searching the warehouse crept ever closer.

Caleb suddenly made a gesture with his hands and though Ben caught the tail end of it, he knew what it meant. His friend wanted to take action before Smith's men could set themselves up. Smith shouted, “Come out and we won't have to shoot the girl, Major.”

Before his friend or Archer could take action, he immediately stepped out from where he was, saying, “Hold fire! Hold fire!” He held up his hands in surrender, just as he heard Caleb groan and Archer sigh. He could not, in good conscience, let another hostage situation unfold – he could not let the same thing that happened to his father, happen to whomever was being held by Smith's men.

Smith's men quickly found and surrounded them, rifles held up as they used them to gesture for Ben and the others to step out. One of the men took his pistol away, while another snatched the blunderbuss Caleb had, before deciding to further disarm him of his two pistols and hatchet. At the end, the man was fumbling with quite a lot of weapons in addition to his own rifle, causing Caleb to snort in laughter before another soldier prodded him none-too-gently in the back. Another man had taken Archer's pistol while two others prodded the three of them closer to each other before marching them towards the entrance of the warehouse.

Ben's face fell as they approached the entrance, seeing who exactly it was that was being held hostage. He didn't know how or why Lottie Sackett was present, but it was clear from the state she was in, that she had put up a fight to not get captured. Her two captors were not of Smith's men, and were wearing plain clothes – had Smith also involved willing and dishonorable civilians of all people in such a horrific trade?

However, his attention was diverted from the young woman as Smith said, “Ah, well, I was wondering when Rutherford was going to get too suspicious of my activities and finally send you to do the dirty work instead of subordinates such as Brewster here.”

“What you're doing, Major,” he angrily said as he heard and saw Caleb try to fight his captors before being wrestled down to the ground by two men in addition to the other two who were holding him by the arms. “What you're doing,” he repeated, “is illegal and immoral! Have you no conscious?! Those are _children_ for God's sake!”

“And privateer crews always need powder boys and able seamen when they grow older,” Smith calmly answered. “I'm just providing them the means without having to go through the legal channels. Congress always takes too long to make decisions, don't they? It took them more than a few months after Lexington and Concord to even muster an army to oust the British from Boston! Months! All the while we starved and endured conditions that no man, woman, or child should've been allowed to live in!”

“That still does not give you the right--”

“Right, Tallmadge?!” Smith scoffed, “Right?! What right does it give you to come in and demand a full list of my manifests, troop numbers, and supplies when I already have to send reports to those damnable snails in Congress with every Continental dollar or British pound that passes through this port?!”

Ben gritted this teeth as he remained silent – he had a feeling that revealing the fact that it was Washington that was requesting a full account of everything in Boston was not going to go over well with Smith. They way the man behaved, along with the reasons he had listed were leaning towards a credence of truth. He had heard, but had not felt what Boston had endured during their occupation before the Battle of Bunker and Breed's Hills, and Massachusetts was the first colony to heartily declare independence. The people of this city and the former colony were fiercely independent and while they were far removed from the battles that happened after they were freed, they were the only trade port in the colony that was fully open and supplying the Continental Army. All other major ports along with eastern coast were either partially blockaded by British ships or havens for privateers hoping to exploit the black market.

“No words to defend yourself or your compatriots, Major?” Smith began, but was cut short when the warehouse door was roughly opened with a _bang_! Startled, all eyes, including those holding Lottie hostage, turned towards the entrance, only to see Colonel Rutherford enter with a rather large host of soldiers behind him.

“Colonel Rutherford,” Smith immediately said before Ben could get a word out. “You're just in time, sir. I have captured these three--”

“What?!” Archer exclaimed. “That's horseshi--”

“You liar!” Caleb shouted at the same time before Smith's soldiers wrapped their hands around their mouths.

“Arrest them,” Rutherford simply ordered to his men, gesturing in their general direction.

“Sir,” Ben began but immediately fell silent as Rutherford's men surrounded Smith instead of him, Caleb, and Archer.

“What?” Smith asked, affecting a completely baffled look as Rutherford's men took him by the arms and disarmed not only him, but all of the other dock garrison soldiers. “Sir?”

“Major Joshua Smith, you are hereby under arrest for the murder of Mr. Richard Trevelyan and Corporal Roger Graham. You are also charged with the attempted abduction of Nathaniel David Sackett and his sister, Catherine Charlotte Sackett, along with the illegal trade of children from this port of Boston,” Rutherford stated in a dispassionate tone.

“Sir! That's not true!” Smith said, keeping his tone as calm as possible, as Ben felt the prodding of the barrels that had been at his back be removed. “He--” Smith pointed directly at him with a free arm that was quickly wrenched behind him by one of Rutherford's men, “--he's the one who did this, trying to forge shipments! Major Tallmadge was asking for manifest details--”

“A plausible story if it is to be believed,” Rutherford interrupted. “But your proof cannot be had, _sir_. I suggest that you save your breath for the courts, because this will not only be a court-martial, but a public trial at that. Despite your meticulous keeping of your ledgers, you have been caught red-handed.”

“By whom?!” Smith demanded. “Who is this person who dares accuse me of this illegal trade--” Ben's eyes widened as he saw of all people that he least expected to step out from behind the soldiers, Mrs. Sackett. She was clutching her modified blunderbuss and had an extremely thunderous expression upon her face, but she was not alone. Standing next to her was a familiar-looking man. It was at Smith's rather accusative, “You!” that he realized who exactly the man was – it was the same person he remembered seeing seemingly harassing Mrs. Sackett to buy into his 'protective' services.

“He's complicit in this too!” Smith shouted. “Those two men over there, they're not mine! They're--”

“Definitely not mine,” the dapper-looking man stated as the two civilians who had been holding Lottie hostage backed away from both parties before Rutherford's men also took their arms and bound them in irons. “Well, they were, until I found out from those within my service and of the watchmen what exactly you were doing, Major Smith. You brought my men and so now, they're yours.”

Smith didn't get to say another word as a piece of cloth was shoved in his mouth and a belt was tied over his mouth, effectively gagging him. As Rutherford's men led Smith's men and Smith himself away, Ben shook out his arms for a moment before accepting his weapons back from one of the men. He also saw Lottie bolt from where she had been standing and rush over to her mother, terrified but hale and healthy from the ordeal that she had had to endure.

“Spread out and check all crates,” he heard Rutherford command the rest of his people as he, Caleb, and Archer approached, holstering their weapons. “Halfland, please escort Mrs. Sackett and her daughter home. O'Brien, fetch a few doctors to come here.”

“There's a starving child in a crate marked Pennsylvania rifles, sir,” he said, gesturing to the crates behind him. He saw the officer nod towards two of the men standing next to him before they hurried past all of them to carry out their task.

“And you're probably full of questions as to how exactly I came here before you, Lieutenant Brewster, and Mr. Archer here could be accused of crimes against humanity or killed, are you not, Major?”

“I am curious,” he admitted. Rutherford stepped to the side, allowing those behind him to step up.

“Jack Alexander, at your service, sir,” the man who remained at Rutherford's side spoke up, sweeping his hat off of his head in a fairly elaborate manner before placing it back on. “I apologize for the circumstances of our first meeting, but I had been running a service of sorts to protect the citizens of the piers. Since the departure of the British occupiers, there had been a disturbing trend of urchins and the like being abducted. Since our watchmen were spread thinly, I formed the service in the hopes that they would help supplement and watch our neighborhoods whenever the watchmen could not. I meant not to harass Mrs. Sackett or any other resident of the area, though I suppose to you, it may have looked that way.”

Ben remained silent at that, before Alexander continued, saying, “It seems that even with money, one can never guarantee the loyalty of one's employees. I regret that two of my own people were corrupted by Major Smith and his activities. However, as to how we got here, well, it seems that Miss Adams and Miss Sackett were by the docks and overheard Smith indicating that something dastardly was about to take place. Miss Adams ran into me, told me what was happening, and I in turn, told the good colonel here.”

“That information was supplemented by reports from Mr. Archer here,” Rutherford spoke up, gesturing to the watchman. “It wasn't until I heard of the most recent abductions that I thought back to your words before you went on that three-day furlough, Tallmadge. Mr. Archer here has kept reports of each and every child that had been abducted since the departure of the British. During your stay in Lexington, I had the good sir here correlate each and every report to the copy of the ledgers you had obtained from Major Smith. It seems that each time a shipment was sent out, there was an uptick in the shipment of certain rifles from Pennsylvania. I do not know if you have ever tried using one before, Major, but those rifles are difficult to maintain and clean. Their shots are also smaller than the usual musket ball.”

“My father had and used one during the war against the French and Indians,” he said, feeling a sudden pang of sadness wash over him. He momentarily pushed it and the memories away as he continued to say, “they are quite difficult to maintain, and it would be much less expensive to supplement our forces down south with the standard flintlock rifles and musket balls.”

“Indeed it would,” Rutherford answered, “but even with this correlated information, another major shipment in and out of the port was not scheduled to happen for another couple of weeks. We had neither the means or evidence to accuse the Major of anything. Your exploration of these tunnels, supposedly collapsed was not what I expected when Mr. Archer informed me of your intentions. However, it has now proved to be the means in which we have captured that man in the act.”

“Apologies for not informing you, sir,” Archer said, as Ben glanced over towards the watchman. “But I wasn't even sure if it was viable to scout out a route to the warehouses.”

“It's fine,” he answered, knowing that he also had had his own doubts about the maps that Creighton had presented to them.

“So we were bait?” Caleb asked, grinning.

“Caleb,” he said, sighing in exasperation.

“No, hey, I'm actually getting used it being bait,” his friend protested, shrugging. “Just need to get used to getting drugged a little more though. Knew that I wasn't hallucinating when I thought I saw Smith and his people putting a child into a crate.”

“The fact that you have seen it happen is important, Lieutenant,” the garrison commander stated. “We will need all three of you to speak on behalf of the prosecution. As much as a summary execution should be in order for Major Smith and those under his command, we must find out if he coerced his men into partaking of this hideous task, or did all of them willingly do so.”

“Sir?” he questioned, sensing that there was something that Colonel Rutherford was not telling them.

“This is going to become quite ugly, sirs,” the garrison commander said after a moment. “A Continental officer accusing another Continental officer of a crime that is just as bad as slavery. Were we not already fighting a war against the British, we do not need a war within our own ranks. Best ready yourself, Tallmadge; Boston may not stand entirely for one of their decorated heroes to be accused of such a horrific crime.”

“I understand, sir,” he said.

* * *

_Evening, at the Central garrison cells..._

 

The clank of the door opening that led to the cells at the main garrison startled the officer from his thoughts. As he casually rolled up from where he was lying, his wrists and ankles still bound in irons, he saw a surprising guest shuffle in and stood on the other side of the bars. “Mr. Alexander,” Smith said, his lips curling up in a grim smile as he stared at the man who had turned him in. “To what do I owe this pleasure of your presence?”

“Nothing,” Alexander answered. “I just wanted to let you know that it was all done for good business. Both you and I overextended ourselves, and while you were more concerned with discrediting Colonel Rutherford and his curs, I was doing some research. You shouldn't have stopped me from carrying out my business transactions, Major, and you shouldn't have had my men abduct David Sackett or capture Lottie Sackett. Otherwise, I would have had the Sackett Apothecary in our hands by now.”

“You only did it to save your own arse, you coward,” Smith hissed. “You--”

“Did you know that Mrs. Sackett of the Sackett Apothecary is formerly Lady Elizabeth Lancaster, daughter of Admiral Lord Viscount Lancaster?” Alexander interrupted. “And that her husband, a Mr. Nathaniel Sackett, is formerly of the British Diplomatic Corps? They may have immigrated here and may be supporting independence, but they still have powerful connections to London and throughout Europe which would have threatened our businesses, had we done anything to their children.”

“You lie,” Smith said after a moment, lips curling in distaste. “You yourself agreed to take the leftover children who did not make it onto the trade ships. You're just as complicit in this business as I am, you fool!”

“On the contrary,” Alexander said, momentarily examining his fingernails as if they were a greater concern than the man or his words before him, before looking back, “I released them, just as I released the children of the wealthy. There were always some fresh ones, but most of those whom your men captured again and again were the same victims, who knew to keep quiet and still so that I did not drug them as much as I needed to the first time. It's such a pity that you had garnered the attention of Rutherford's curs, otherwise I hadn't have had to detain Lieutenant Brewster and we wouldn't have been in this mess.”

“I'll see you hanged as well!” Smith growled, “I'll tell the court about you! Your two men, they'll tell about you!”

“If only they still had tongues and hands to either state or write down their statements,” he said in a calm and dangerous tone, giving the man a thin smile.

“You will not escape! They'll hunt you down like the mad dog you are! You will also face the judge for your crimes!”

Alexander's smile disappeared and was replaced by an uncaring expression as he stated, “In my era, Major Smith, people like you who smuggle children for profit are put to death without a trial. You're lucky you live in the 18th century, sir. While I cannot admit that it had been a pleasure doing business with you, you have taught me that the human depravity knows no bounds, no matter what year it is. I was only trying to run a business and 'protect' the people here, but your exploits of them are what separates the refined from the provincial. I do hope that you enjoy your last days on this good green earth and that we may never meet again in the next life.”

The business man then left without another word to the officer, leaving the officer quite baffled and confused for a moment. However, as Smith's howls of protest filled the empty cell, Alexander was already long gone, with none of those in the bowels of the garrison office any the wiser that someone unfriendly had infiltrated their stronghold.

* * *

_A few days later..._

 

“The prosecution would like to call Major Benjamin Tallmadge of the 2nd Continental Light Dragoons to give testimony.”

Ben quietly sighed to himself, feeling Caleb pat him on the shoulder as the surprised murmurs floated through the gathered crowd. Rutherford had warned him before hand that because of the nature of the public trial, his actual purpose here in Boston was going to be exposed during this trial. In order to not subvert the judicial system, Rutherford could not bend the truth to the prosecution – and in turn the prosecutor was hoping that perhaps the last of the corruption within the city could be flushed away by having not only the judge presiding over the trial, but also the public see that people outside of the city were starting to take notice.

Caleb would be called next to speak and given testimony after him, but for now, he would do everything he could to ensure that his friend had an easier time being questioned than he did. Gently pushing through the throng of people, he stepped out of the crowd and stopped at the edge of the polished wooden hand rail that separated the gallery from the judge, jury, and both prosecution and defense lawyers. His helmet was secured at his side as he took a very quick looked around and above the room towards the second floor of the gallery, quite aware of the multitude of curious eyes set him.

Resting his free hand on the rail, he met the prosecutor's eyes for a moment before hearing the man say, “Let it be stated for the record that Major Tallmadge here is not of Boston, and was sent to this city in an official capacity for the Continental Army under the orders of General George Washington.”

Murmurs floated up and around the room as he felt the inquisitive eyes of those watching the trial fall upon him a little more intensely than the initial statement. He dared not glance over towards where Smith and a few men of the central docks garrison were, standing proudly against the mob behind their backs. The two men who had held Lottie hostage had been found dead in their cells only this morning, having hung themselves by their own clothes from the top of the cell bars.

There was never an honor in accusing an officer or enlisted man of crimes, and Ben could derive no pleasure in gloating over Smith's capture and the trial. He could only pity the man along with the others and the circumstances that had found all of Boston here today. However, as the prosecutor stood up from where he was sitting, Ben heard him say, “I will not ask the details of your order, Major Tallmadge, for that is not our concern. What the concern is at the moment is your description of the events that led up to the events at the fourth warehouse in the central piers.”

Ben took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and began...

~~~

Five long and arduous days of presenting details, along with evidence ranging from the ledgers collected by Rutherford's men, to Archer's notes about every single abduction that he knew of in the city, passed. Ben, Caleb, Archer, even surprisingly Archibald James, had been questioned by both the prosecution and defense, along with many other men ranging from civilians within the watchmen services, to Rutherford's command. The only two people who had not been questioned were little David and Lottie, owing to the fact that sensibility overruled the necessity to question either on their ordeals.

It had taken all of Ben's concentration and careful wordsmith to ensure that his actual activities as former Head of Intelligence prior to his departure for Boston was not revealed, for the public did not need to know such a detail of his service record. Rutherford had kept his word in keeping that particular piece secret, and Caleb... well, Caleb was not the most diplomatic in his answers to the defense or prosecution's questions, and thus was questioned the least.

Now though, with the sun past its zenith on the fifth and misty-wet day of this very public and downright grotesque trial, both sides had finally given their final statements and the jury was sequestered away in the courtroom, debating the charges. Both Ben and Caleb were among those waiting outside in the halls of the courthouse, and as much as he wanted to close his eyes and rest for a moment, he was still in public and thus could not dare show just how mentally tired he was – it would not do to add yet another soiling image to the Continental Army. This trial was already damaging the army's reputation, and he just hoped that the outcome was enough to at least salvage what reputation they had left, and send a clear message across the thirteen colonial states that corruption was not to be tolerated.

“Directly serving under the great General Washington, huh?” he heard Archibald James say as he looked up to see his former classmate standing before him, holding out a hand. “Commander of one of the units we keep hearing about in the gazettes and their defense up and down the coast of Connecticut and New Jersey. I'm impressed, Tallmadge.”

“Um,” he started, taking the hand and shaking it. “Thank you, Archibald.”

“Heard about the action at Setauket, too,” Archibald said, grinning as they let go. “There's hope yet that we can get rid of the British yoke at the rate we're winning.”

“Hey, picking up yet another admirer, Tall-boy?” Caleb jokingly asked from beside him.

“My congratulations also extends to you, Lieutenant Brewster,” Archibald said, sticking out his hand towards Caleb, who looked at it in surprise before tentatively shaking it, as if it were a hot fireplace poker. Ben found it both amusing and touching at the same time, realizing that very little praise ever got heaped upon his friend. He would have to begin to rectify that; to ensure that Caleb got as much due owed to him for everything that he had done thus far. Without Caleb having his back most of the time, he knew that he wouldn't have gotten as far as he did now.

“You should join us,” Caleb began.

“Alas, I shan't Lieutenant,” Archibald said. “My beliefs do not lend me towards violence.”

“Oh, a Quaker then?”

“Yes,” the schoolmaster answered without any sort of offense coloring his tone. “I much prefer to educate the masses with crucial knowledge than to pick up a blade or rifle to show my beliefs of what I feel about British rule. That being said, I have also reconsidered joining the new academy at Andover and will be staying here for the foreseeable future.”

“The pupils will be happy to not have their instruction disrupted further by a new schoolmaster then,” he said, smiling.

“On the contrary, I think they did enjoy the lessons you taught more than my method of instruction,” Archibald answered, grinning, to which Ben found himself flushed with the heat of embarrassment.

He was saved from further commentary by either Caleb or the schoolmaster as a shout outside caught his attention. “Major Tallmadge! Major Tallmadge!”

Startled, Ben looked down the hall and saw a harried young enlisted man run into the courthouse, tearing through the hallway while profusely apologizing. The young man was wearing the uniform of a militiaman, but the hair style he sported was definitely not of the era. Shaved sides, along with a closely-cropped dark hair under the floppy tricorn he wore told him that this man was one of his counterpart's men.

“Sir!” the young man said, skidding to a halt in front of him, just as Archibald stepped out of the way. The young man was holding out a folded and sealed piece of parchment, saying, “Orders from General Washington!”

“I'll get the horses, Ben,” Caleb immediately said, slapping him on the back and hurrying out as he secured his helmet more snugly against his side, took the missive and opened it.

The orders were short and to the point, but there was no mistaking it. Both he and Caleb were being recalled; not to Morristown, but to rendezvous with his counterpart and the others in Connecticut. Washington's campaign against New York was about to start, but he was not the only one to be summoned. Ignoring the startled glances of those around him, he focused his attention back on the courier, saying, “Tell them we're on our way and will be there in four days. The garrison will await further orders before they depart.”

“Yes, sir!” the young man said, barely remembering to knuckle his forehead as per his disguise before running back down the hall and out of the courthouse.

“Well, best of luck to you, Major,” Archibald spoke up after a moment.

“Thank you,” he answered.

In a less frenzied manner, but still insistent and polite as possible, he made his way further into the courthouse – the orders contained in Washington's missive were not only for him, but also for Colonel Rutherford. He found the garrison commander near the entrance to the courtroom, quietly conversing with Mrs. Sackett while Lottie, David, and their governess were sitting near them on a bench. Whether it was the utterly serious demeanor he carried, or the fact that he had extended his hand with the missive out as he approached, Rutherford immediately stepped away with a polite excuse towards Mrs. Sackett to meet him halfway.

“Sir,” he said, handing over the missive, “orders have come in from General Washington. Lieutenant Brewster and I are being recalled, and His Excellency has also issued you orders.”

There was a clear frown on the garrison commander's face as he quickly read through the letter before curtly asking, “When do you leave, Tallmadge?”

“Now, sir,” he said, ignoring the curious and concerned looks that the Sackett family and their governess were giving him. “I regret that neither the Lieutenant nor I can stay for the duration of the trial, but the urgency of the situation necessitates no delays.”

“Do you have everything that you need?”

“I do, sir,” he said, knowing that the piece of parchment that contained all of the Boston defense numbers was sitting folded and snug in his jacket's pocket. The encrypted notebook, having been handed back to him by Mrs. Sackett after he had given it to her for safe keeping before he had embarked upon the underground tunnel investigation, had already been burned the night before. What was left was only a summary written on the parchment, with a few key details remembered by him. With western Connecticut currently being disputed for control between British and Continental forces, it was not safe to even commit everything to an encrypted notebook or to a piece of parchment. Should he be captured, the British would only get the numbers, but not all of the details of where those numbers were.

“Then do not concern yourself with the happenings here anymore. I'll inform those inside of what is happening, for I must also begin to muster the men,” Rutherford said. “Go, and Godspeed, Major. Next we meet shall be in battle, where I will hopefully inform you of the fate of Major Smith and his men.”

“Thank you, sir,” he said, ignoring the burst of chatter among those waiting to return to the courtroom as they overheard the officer's words. He instead, firmly shook Rutherford's hand as he clutched his helmet in his left hand a bit tighter. Turning slightly to incline his head slightly down towards Mrs. Sackett and her family, he said, “Thank you, Mrs. Sackett, for the generosity you have shown Caleb and I. I hope that you and your family continue to remain safe. Until next time.”

“Thank you and Godspeed to both of you,” Mrs. Sackett said, eyes and expression serious.

He didn't get to take more than a couple of steps away when Lottie suddenly asked, “Major Tallmadge, may I write you?”

He paused, mid-step, and turned back slightly to see that there was an earnest expression on Lottie's face, just as he heard Mrs. Sackett admonish her daughter, saying, “Lottie!”

Well aware that there were curious eyes upon him and the young woman, he completed his turn so that he was facing her. It suddenly made sense to him as to where the missive about two men following him to the Inn all those weeks ago, along with why she had been captured and brought to the warehouse. And while Caleb's words to him during their first days in Boston echoed in his mind, he had to admit that there was at least a kernel of truth to his friend's words. His focus was the war and efforts pouring into that duty, and everything else, including his relationship with Natalie, was secondary.

While Lottie's question had brought that particular aspect of his life to the forefront, they were in such a public forum that anything less than a 'yes' would greatly shame her. He didn't want that for her, but he could not bring himself to say the word 'no' to her delicate and hopeful request. Instead, he decided to close the distance, to keep it as quiet as possible so that only perhaps those around her knew of his words.

“At the present, I'm afraid that your words would be wasted upon me, Miss Sackett,” he said as gently as he could. “However,” he said, picking up her right hand with his free one, “thank you for watching over me.” He brought her hand up slightly and kissed the back of it before letting it go.

Her initial disheartened look at his words was turned into a surprised one as he saw her flush pink, mouth open slightly in an 'o'. Stepping back, he met Mrs. Sackett's eyes as she stepped forward to make sure that her daughter did not faint from shock, and saw the barest hint of a twinkle shining through. With a wordless nod towards the family, Colonel Rutherford, and Peggy Shippen, he turned and left.

* * *

“Orders from General Washington?” Alexander murmured to himself as he stood by the alleyway, watching the celebrated heroes who had taken down a horrific smuggling ring secure their horses to ready for a long ride. He thought he saw the barest hints of a certain blocky, angular-looking black rifle wrapped in cloth and tucked behind Lieutenant Brewster's back, as both he and Major Tallmadge swung themselves up upon their horses. As the crowd's curious murmurs rose, the two rode away just as a couple of Colonel Rutherford's aides poured out of the courthouse to spread word about the muster order.

“Interesting rifle that that Brewster fellow carries,” he muttered watching like so many other citizens of the city, the cantering horses becoming specs upon the city's horizon.

As he turned away and headed deeper into the empty alleyway, he reached under his cravat and shirt collar and scratched at a small area between the edge of his shoulder and neck. Feeling that area loosen slightly, he then dug his fingers deep into the area and suddenly _pulled_ , ripping a full face mask off of his head. Briefly shaking out his sweat-matted hair, he held the mask loosely in his right hand as his left fished for the flints within his jacket's inner pocket.

Dropping the mask, he crouched down and struck the flints together until a fire was borne on the mask. Replacing the flints back into his pocket, he watched as the lit mask fought against the drizzling rain and finally burned to ashes before standing back up. “Goodbye Mr. Jack Alexander,” he murmured towards the ash pile. “It is time for me to return to who I really am, now that the rumors of what has been happening south have all but been confirmed with Brewster's laser rifle.”

He sighed, but it was not one of exasperation or of longing as he resumed his walk down the alleyway. “Now if _he_ is indeed here, then the device must now work,” he muttered to himself pulling out a small, smooth, rectangular device that had a button of sorts on the side. Pressing it, he heard a small pop and a hiss emit from the device and smiled as he let the button go for a moment. Bringing it up to his lips, he pressed the button again, saying, “This is Agent Robb Townsend of MI6, to Director John Andre. Message is as follows: I have Boston's defenses. Culper Ring members 721 and 725 have been recently sighted here in the city and were recalled to the south on 711's orders. Suspect that 711 will move on New York soon. Advise.”

Silence answered him as he let go of the button, but a moment later, there was a faint popping noise before a faintly tinny voice answered, “Copy Agent Townsend. All members of Culper and Culpeper Rings are present and accounted for. Advise that you prepare for infiltration as Culpeper Agent 723 into the combined Rings. Long live Britannia.”

“Long live Britannia.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so this leads into the end of Chapter 13, where Ben and Caleb arrive at Stratford, CT, rendezvousing with the Connecticut forces who are about to launch a feint at NYC.
> 
> Readers familiar with my historical-fiction fanfic series, Legends of the Revolution, will note similarities regarding certain characters when interacting with others, namely Ben reacting to Lottie's askance to write to him. While this particular parallel fanfic will never turn into that long, let's-have-a-realistic-look-at-the-revolution series, there will be times in the TURN Season 3 (and if they continue on with more seasons) parallel that whiplash humor will be in effect.
> 
> 14 March 2016: I am now on a semi-break from writing this fic (any omake will now be posted to my LJ), heralding the call of real-life and other projects that need to be finished. See you back at the beginning of May, after Season 3 premieres!


	21. Well, That Violent Hanging Set The Mood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6 May 2016: Let the madness continue with the S3 parallel (ish).

**Chapter 21: Well, That Violent Hanging Set The Mood**

 

_Previously, on TURN: One Hundred and Eighty..._

 

“You got that fear in your eyes, boy,” Rogers said, taking a rather large gulp of the ale before placing the mug back down. “Good. Because that fear is what is going to keep you alive. Your descendant has gone mad and tried to assassinate good ol' George after their glorious victory at Monmouth.”

Abe remained silent, not because of fear now, but because of shock. How had his descendant even attempted to kill General Washington? He had thought she was injured beyond the simplest of movements. It had nearly killed him and Samantha Tallmadge to get her out.

“I knew that there was always something wrong with you... something strange...” Rogers continued. “And now, I know why.”

* * *

_And now, the continuation..._

 

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he challenged, nearly hissing his words as he looked around, fearful that someone unsavory or worse, British, was listening in. The Ranger's words were hitting much too close to home, and the fact that the man had mentioned _descendants_ of all things, including Ben's counterpart worried him. Not that he was already compromised with the strangest of allies that he could find while in New York, but now this? This was utter madness, and for the life of him, he could not see a way that Rogers would turn and _work_ with the Continental Army – not after what he had attempted to do and had done in his whirlwind appearance in Setauket over a year and a half-ago.

But then again, what he briefly knew of the man was almost nothing except that he served in the Queen's Rangers and that he was good, really good at sniffing out traitors. Perhaps Ben or someone _had_ convinced Rogers to join the Continental side. Perhaps not. He did not know but until he could find out, he understood that there was a very specific reason why Rogers had sought him out. He needed to find out just how compromised he was and this was not the place to do so.

“Oh don't yeh?” Rogers said, taking a swig of his ale. “Then why the look, Woodhull? You're back in this Devil's nest, away from the heart of all those fops, and yet you're gravelly concerned about some rebel commander _and_ my words don't seem to surprise you.”

“You know what?” he said, abruptly standing up as his chair scraped back on the floor in quite a loud manner, drawing unwanted attention from others in the area. “Leave me be. Maybe you should check _that_ field again if they said that your investigation needs to be reopened, because I sure have not tilled that field since last year!”

Leaving his pint where it was, he then stalked out of the tavern, with the door slamming behind him. Burying his hands in pockets, he glanced around, seeing that no one in the area was paying him anymore attention as he returned to where his horses and cart was. Removing his hands from his pocket, he took the reins and climbed up to the cart. Seating himself in a comfortable, casual manner, he then flicked the reins to get the horses going. As he set off, he took one last glance back at the tavern, but did not see anyone else emerge from it. He hoped that with his vague words, it conveyed enough of a location where Rogers would go and that he would be able to confront the man and if need be, kill him.

It didn't take long for him to reach his farm and as he halted the horses and hurriedly tied their reins to a post. As soon as he entered the house, he saw Mary and Thomas in the kitchen, with both of them looking up in surprise at him. “Mary, take Thomas to my father's right now,” he said, going over to them.

“Abe--” Mary began, protesting.

“Now, Mary, please!” he said, wishing that each time he had done such a thing, she would just listen to him and not protest. But after all that she had done in keeping silent, he owed it to her for at least a truthful explanation. “Robert Rogers is in Setauket and I just encountered him in the tavern. He's headed here.”

“Robert Rogers?” she questioned, though there was a clear amount of fear in her eyes at the mention of his name. She knew what trouble he had caused the last time he had been present in the town.

“Go Mary. Tell my father I'll be there for supper. Make up an excuse, say you found an infestation of rats or something and I'm taking care of it,” he said, taking one last look at his wife and son before pounding upstairs. As he heard his wife move about and exit the house, he flung open the bedroom door and immediately dove to the floor to fish out the pistol that Ensign Baker had given to him long ago and that he had brought back with him. It was a very good thing that the British soldier had not yet returned to Setauket when they had left – he was sure that the officer would be quartered with them again.

He heard the slight whinny of horses and the slap of leather on skin as he checked the priming powder before putting the hammer back at half-cock. Holstering the pistol in his trousers, he went back down the stairs. The clip-clop of horses and the creak of the wagon faded from his ears as he poked his head out to see his wife and son's profiles fading into the distance. Glancing around the empty field and far away forests, he saw nothing but the trees and barren ground. As a spring breeze blew by, bringing the familiar scent of the salty sea with it, he fully emerged from his house and taking one last look around, he sprinted from the front door to where he remembered someone describing where they had found the dead British captain's body.

As he slid into the ditch and halted himself, he looked around but could not hear anything out of the ordinary. Cautiously looking around, he took his pistol out and pulled the hammer back to full cock as he held it to the side, with the barrel facing the sky. Moving a bit further into the forest that surrounded his empty cabbage field, hoping to find someplace that he could not only lay an ambush for Rogers, should the man come looking for him, but also keep an eye out to make sure that _he_ was not ambushed.

“Yeh know, for a simple cabbage farmer, you're quite a jumpy one.”

Abe froze as he heard the shifting of clothes and the rustling of footsteps on the leaf-covered ground behind him. Slowly turning, he kept his expression as still as possible as he saw Rogers emerge from behind a rather thick tree, casually tapping the barrel of his rifle against his shoulder. “H-how...?” he began, but found himself faltering, for it should have been impossible for Rogers to get to this spot before him.

“You forget, boy,” the Ranger answered, “I'm a Ranger. This--” Rogers gestured all around him with his open hand “--is what I do. You can't ambush me, at least not with those paltry skills of yours. You need training – my kind of training, if you have any hope of surviving.”

“I'm good, thanks,” he said, lowering his weapon as he pushed the hammer back to half-cock.

“No you're not,” Rogers said, stopping and looking around, but not in a manner that betrayed concern. “You're compromised. At least that's what the Tallmadge boy tells me – the one who is a fully-trained soldier of this so-called future United States Army, not the foolish boy who volunteered. And before you try to deny it again, boy, I know about you and your little cabal. I was sent here, not to protect you boy, but to make sure you don't die. Because even after your descendant tried to kill good old Georgie, they all still want you alive. Personally, if I was stabbed like a pig, I'd let you die just to change the future so I didn't have to get stabbed.”

“What?” he asked in disbelief, “That's absurd. I don't even know you and I know enough about the Queen's Rangers to know that they don't give a rat's ass about anyone but themselves and the bounties they collect for massacring patrols!”

Anger flashed through Rogers eyes as the man took one menacing step forward, but after what he had faced down below in the underworld of New York, Abe was not intimidated by such acts. “Don't you dare presume what we are and aren't!”

“Glorified messengers who work for the highest bidder?” he scoffed, unafraid. “Turning to the enemy at the drop of a hat? Tell me, how much did Major Tallmadge, the future one mind you, offer to have you join them?”

“That's between me and my employer, Woodhull,” Rogers said in a testy tone. “And that boy also got promoted to General.”

“G-General?!” he stated and could not help but stare at the Ranger in utter disbelief.

“The future is a strange place, boy,” the man stated as he brushed past and made his way up the ditch and back into the empty field.

“Yeah,” he absently said after a moment before following Rogers, though he kept his eyes on the rifle that was being carried. “You know you can't stay here, right? A British officer had been quartered here before the Continentals took over. He's most likely going to return in the next few days.”

“I won't be in your hair day in and day out, boy,” Rogers said, continuing towards the house. “Now, where's your lovely wife and son?”

“At my father's,” he stated. “And they'll stay there until I say its safe to come home, which is when you permanently leave this town. Tonight. I don't need your protection, Rogers.”

“I told yeh,” the man said, stopping and turning back around. “I'm not here to _protect_ you. I'm here to make sure you're not going to die.”

“And what the hell does that mean?” he said, throwing his arms up in exasperation.

“You have a lot of enemies now, Woodhull. A lot more than just the British to worry about. See, Washington's Head of Intelligence, smart boy, but not too bright when he gets angry. He let slip the name of the assassin while trying to interrogate her to find out what weapon was used on Washington. Now the entire camp knows of the name Woodhull, but only as a Tory loyalist and your descendant as a Britannian assassin. Not as spies for their great general. Someone is going to get a letter back to those Whigs who still live here, and then—BAM!”

Abe jumped but that moment of shock was over as chills ran through his bodies, momentarily blanking out his thoughts. “Mary... Thomas!” he said before the sounds and sensations rushed back into him. He only got to take two steps before a vice-like grip landed on his arm, twisting it painfully and forcing him to stop and face Rogers.

“There's no one for miles from here to your father's house, Woodhull,” Rogers stated, but did not let go. “They're safe for now.”

“How do you know that?” he demanded.

There was a cheeky smile on Rogers's face as he let his arm go and pulled out a small cube-like object that glittered rather strangely in the sunlight. It fit in the center of the palm of the Ranger's hand, but then Rogers set it to the ground a little away from them before pressing the center of it. Faster than he could follow, _something_ sprang out of it, and it looked to be a horse.

“Jesus Christ!” Abe swore as a fully grown, tawny-skinned, and real-looking horse stood before him, flicking its tail and swishing its head slightly. However true it looked, it was the eyes, glowing red in color that completely frightened the wits out of him for a few moments.

“Told you the future is strange,” Rogers said, patting the beast on its neck before pressing something in its left ear. As quickly as it had sprung up, it collapsed again, and the way it melted back into the inert cube was eerie.

“I think I'm going to be sick,” he couldn't help but say as a wave of unease crawled across his stomach, but try as he might, he could not find anything to heave out. After a moment, he managed to stand slightly back up, but was still hunched over as he looked up at Rogers, asking, “How was that supposed to help my wife and son?”

“It's not an ordinary horse, boy,” Rogers said in a pedantic tone.

“I can see that,” he shot back in exasperation.

“It can carry a rider nearly as fast as that musket ball in your pistol,” Rogers said, gesturing to the pistol still in his hand as he saw him pick up the cube and place it in a side pouch. “I used it to get here from the tavern and to check that the route to your father's house was clear even before you arrived home.”

Abe was silent for a very long moment, but he could not fault the man for his words or actions thus far. New York's happenings had changed him, and he knew it, but it was getting harder and harder to hide that fact from his father and from others not in the know. Even hiding the wonders he had seen from Mary was becoming hard, and he thought that by leaving the city, perhaps his life would become a little more normal, or as normal as can be.

“Let's say I trust you,” he said, narrowing his eyes slightly. “You know what I did, what I am, and who I reported to. I was already done for – I already knew that since Washington's sent someone else to help me in New York, and now you're saying that Washington... no Ben's burned me?”

Rogers shrugged in an unconcerned manner, “Didn't think it was the boy's intention, but yeah. You're a known British loyalist. Your descendant is a known Britannian assassin who nearly succeeded in killing General Washington.”

“Wait... only a British loyalist?” he asked, as an idea formed in his mind. It stemmed mainly from what Samantha Tallmadge had told them when she had arrived to gather the last of the New York numbers, and from what Deputy Director Simcoe had bee saying about not only his future but the future of the revolution – both revolutions.

“You got that look in your eyes, boy. It's a dangerous one that I've seen on many faces before.”

“Not intentional, but I think Ben's just given me a way back in,” he muttered more to himself than to Rogers. Looking back up, he saw a keen look in the Rangers' eyes as he grimly smiled. It was risky, but after what had happened, it was the only way he could ensure that he remained useful to Washington – and what more than to allow such rumors of his loyalty to British forces propagate? It would also allow him to make inquiries into Anna's whereabouts, and hopefully find her and if need be, rescue her.

“It looks like everyone in town still thinks you're British,” he casually said.

“Yes,” Rogers answer, stretching out that confirmation for a few moments, “it does.”

“How long do you think your investigation will take? Do you intend on staying here for a while?”

“Boy--”

Abe held up a hand to silence him, knowing that the Ranger was annoyed, “I'm sure you're going to need a place to stay for now, and that Major Hewlett would want to know why you're here again, Rogers. I don't think that investigation was ever closed, and people still probably suspect me of killing the good captain even though I took an oath of allegiance. Help me clear my name, and I'll see what I can do to help you with your investigation. Perhaps your investigation might take you outside of Setauket. I can help you in that manner if you ever find the need to travel to Oyster Bay in the west or Sag Harbor in the east.”

“And New York?” Rogers questioned, an understanding look crossing his features.

“I have a contact there who might be able to help you in your investigation if the clues here yield anything necessitating you to go to the city,” he carefully answered. He didn't know how much the man knew of the entire ring and their operations, but he wouldn't put it past that neither Ben or Ben's future-counterpart would not have informed Rogers of such details.

Though he was still in disbelief that his descendant had tried to assassinate Washington, there was conviction within Rogers's tone that told him the worse had happened. He could not worry about that right now, not with all that had happened after the apparent victory at Monmouth. Ben may have unintentionally burned him in trying to discover aspects of the assassination attempt, but what people hated him, Abe, for as a supposed loyalist to British forces and their ideals, was to be his new cover in counter-intelligence.

Whigs and those loyal to the freedom of the colonies from British rule may come for him, but that only served to bolster his cover in the eyes of the British and hopefully, Britannia. He would have to be even more careful in what he now did, since he clearly understood that Rogers was not here to protect, but to ensure that those of the future did not kill him since they had more advanced ways of killing him. He was sure that that was what Ben's future-counterpart had thought of when he had sent Rogers to Setauket. There was also the fact that Washington needed his descendant alive for reasons that he cared not to linger upon.

Rogers was now his go-between. Whatever the man could get from outside Setauket would be manipulated by him and fed back into New York City. Documents, plans, fake orders, whatever he could do, he would do – because he knew that if he stopped now, he was as good as dead.

* * *

_Two days later..._

 

There was still a celebratory atmosphere even this far out from Philadelphia's limits as civilians and soldiers alike mingled, some drunk with wine and ale, others just dancing in the fields and dirt roads. Many of them, however, were still tucked away in their homes, sleeping their headaches and exhaustion away. Fortunately, with such a large host coming out of Philadelphia, even the most drunk of persons was still wise enough to remove himself from the main road as combined forces of the 2nd Continental Light Dragoons with their future counterparts of the 2nd Legionnaires marched through.

All were on horses, though those who were awake at this early hour blinked and rubbed their eyes, half in disbelief as to what they were seeing. It was not only a combination of the motley uniform, some in colors and cut that did not even look like clothes that one would normally wear, and others staring at some of the beasts, wondering if it were just a trick of the light that they thought they saw red eyes upon the horses instead of the normal dark colored eyes.

At the lead though, proudly carrying the soldiers to their new assignment and mission was Major Benjamin Tallmadge done up in blue and gold. Those who rode immediately behind him were of the combined Culper-Culpeper Ring, but those who saw them march through did not know and only saw them as solders who served in the unit. Even with such a strange sight passing by, those who were coherent enough starting cheering, proud of the victories that had graced the Continental Army in general in the past few days. Their shouts of encouragement and of just how glad they were to have oust the British presence from the region brought smiles upon some of the 2nd Light-Legions, as most within the combined units had started to refer to themselves. They were heroes and they had every right to be proud of what they had done.

It was between the newly liberated town of Trenton and Philadelphia, along the Delaware River, well away from the celebratory atmosphere that still gripped both Philadelphia and Trenton and prying eyes, that General Washington's orders were finally carried out. Two riders, Caleb Brewster and his descendant, Carrie, split off from the main host, galloping as fast as their robotic horses would allow, towards Morristown. They were to carry out Washington's request to transport the captured assassin to a safehouse in Connecticut.

After the Brewsters-two left, it was Samantha Tallmadge and the Philadelphia branch of the Culper Ring who departed next – headed towards the shores of New Jersey to begin their infiltration into New York City via Long Island to replace the compromised New York-Long Island branch of the Culper Ring. The last of those given a different assignment from the 2nd Light-Legions, Natalie Sackett, stayed with the unit, but would be departing as soon as they crossed the borders of the eastern New York-Massachusetts-Connecticut region.

* * *

_Philadelphia..._

 

Washington could not fully keep the wince off of his face as he felt his manservant, William, gently press his fingers near the wound as both he and the doctor wound the cloth bandage around him again. While tender around the cauterized area, there was no sign or smell of infection and any pus formed around the burnt wound had been lanced and drained. Still, it hurt each time gentle fingers or the cloth bandage pressed against that area, though not as much as whenever he stood up or sat down.

While he walked, the bandages prevented the cloth of his shirt from scraping against the wounded area, but riding a horse created excruciating pain. It had only been by sheer will that he had managed to travel on horseback from Monmouth to Haddonfield and participate in the subsequent battle. It was only because he did not see any signs of his future counterpart being affected that he knew that what he was doing was going to cause him to die. The pain certainly made him want to die, but the movements and actions he took, it had not reopened the wound.

That had not excused him from receiving a rather strong lecture from the doctor though. He internally welcomed the lecture, even if the doctor had looked sufficiently admonished and embarrassed to have said such strong words to his face. But for now, there was no lecture coming from the doctor, and only soft apologies issuing from his manservant's lips for the pain that was being caused by the bandaging.

It was soon finished, and after the doctor left, William helped him get dressed again before stepping back, allowing him to rise from the half-chair he had been sitting on for the examination. It was the one thing he insisted on for his manservant not to do – to help him stand up and down. Pride partially drove him to issue such an order, but also the fact that he needed the constant reminder of just how close he had been to death; to remind himself that this war had changed. As he slowly stood up, he glanced up and over at the grandfather clock in his room stated that it was a little past nine in the morning. He was already late in beginning the day's work, and the sounds of celebration in the streets were still audible, though subdued as the people of Philadelphia returned to the daily activities.

As he took the steps forward, William opened the door and with more confidence and less pain, now that his wound had been redressed and the boils lanced, he made his way down to his office. He and the rest of the Continental Army would be leaving Philadelphia in a few days, for the reports that he had received from not only his reinstated Head of Intelligence but from other scouting units pointed to suspicious activities around the New Jersey-New York region. They would have to re-establish a strong presence in Morristown.

Entering his office, he was not surprised to find it a flurry of activites, namely coming from his aides, Hamilton, Laurens, and Lafayette as the chatter of their notes to each other from decoded reports, supply missives, and even general correspondence from Congress, well-wishers, and businessmen filled the air. Fielding some of those reports, but in a less chaotic manner were two of his counterpart's bodyguards, Russian Secret Service agents Mikhail Sackett and his sister, Irina. The leader of the trio of bodyguards from the future who protected their Lt. General Washington, Anatoly Volkov, was standing at the entrance like a steady sentinel, eyes unblinking and staring forward, but taking in the entire room.

It was eerie to him, and gave him a very uncomfortable feeling, for even his usual guards outside in Morristown and here in the building he had established as temporary headquarters, occasionally shifted in their boots, blinked, or sniffled. Agent Volkov did not even move one muscle upon his face as he walked past.

“Your Excellency! Good morning!” Lafayette greeted cheerfully, pausing not only Laurens and Hamilton's activities, but also the other two Russian agents. His greeting had not drawn the attention of the other ranking officer who occupied the office – Lt. General Washington – who merely watched with a mild look upon her face at the slowing of the seemingly chaotic activities.

“Good morning,” he greeted his officers and the others before carefully and slowly taking his seat at his desk.

As Hamilton briefed him on the correspondences and reports that had come in during the night and activities for the day, Laurens and Lafayette busied themselves with clearing off other reports. Washington found himself not disappointed by the amount of scouting reports that had returned from various deployed groups, but the ones from near Fort Westpoint had not come in yet. He didn't expect those reports for another couple of days, but he was anxious to see what Tallmadge and his unit had found in that region.

It had been the one area that he had more concerns about after finding out about the number and types of forces that Cornwallis and Clinton had with them before Monmouth. He knew from winter reports submitted from scouts running back and forth from Saratoga before the heart of winter had cut off all communication with General Scott, that Fort Westpoint seemed to be where most of the British soldiers who had fought at Saratoga wintered. There had also been reports from the 2nd Legionnaires before that about possible sightings of Britannian forces in the area.

He had ordered his Head of Intelligence to prevent the historical defection and betrayal of Arnold, and it was only because of the building of forces at Fort Westpoint that governed that order. He was sure that either Director or Major Andre would try to twist that knife into him, even if he knew about what 'history' dictated what happened to his friend. He was hoping that Tallmadge or elements of the Culper Ring would be able to uncover details related to the fort while carrying out the orders for the prevention of Arnold's defection.

“Thank you, Alexander,” he said as soon as his aide was done with the report. “If all of you would please, give the Lieutenant General and I some privacy? I would like to speak to her alone.”

“As you wish, Excellency,” Hamilton said, before signaling to Laurens, Lafayette, and the Sackett siblings. “Would you like some coffee to accompany your discussion?”

“Yes, please,” he said, as the others left, but not before Lafayette had moved one of the other chairs in the room to the front of his desk.

A quick, admonishing, and sharp, “Volkov!” from Laurens to the Russian agent still standing at the entrance moved the agent from his sentinel stance.

Even before the door to the office closed, Washington saw his counterpart stand up and approach. She respectfully waited until he gestured for her to take the seat that had been set out in front of his desk. Sitting with a grace that he almost did not expect from her, considering that she walked and rode a horse with a manner that seemed almost stiff, precise, and similar to how a man carried himself, he saw her absently smooth out her mottled-colored uniform. They did not have to wait long for Hamilton to return with a tray of coffee and set it out for them.

As soon as Hamilton left, Washington picked up the porcelain cup and took a sip of the warm, bitter brew before placing it back down. Folding his hands across his lap, he watched his counterpart take a sip from her own cup before she too, placed the cup back down. “Your Culpeper Ring,” he began, “how did it start, for I was under the impression that most of those involved, even enemy forces, were aware that they were the descendants of the original Culper Ring. Were they already not compromised before it was established?”

“When we rebelled,” she said, “neither General Scott of my era nor my Major Tallmadge were officially established as Head of Intelligence. I and other commanders knew that it would not be effective. Instead, there were many cells of Intelligence established by trusted commanders in the various regions. One of those was the establishment of the Culpeper Ring by Major Tallmadge. I allowed him to staff the Ring with descendants of the original Ring, but not in a capacity that would enable espionage. Those known descendants were serving as pure counter-intelligence agents and saboteurs. They carried the Culpeper Ring name with them in the open, knowingly and willingly painting themselves as targets. This allowed Major Tallmadge to fill the real Ring with other agents, some of whom were within the 2nd Legionnaires and served part time when their duties would allow it. In a way, it is similar to what you have now done with the compromised New York-Long Island branch and replacing them with the Philadelphia branch of the Ring.”

“Then was there a Head of Intelligence in your era to counter Director Andre?” he asked.

“I nominated Agent Sackett for the task, due to her background and prior mentorship with Director Andre during her time at MI6, but ultimately, General Lee chose Commander Jake Creighton, a decorated Naval Intelligence officer as the official US Armed Forces Head of Intelligence.”

“We have encountered him before,” he stated, picking up the porcelain cup again and taking a sip, “in this past New Year, that brought my Head of Intelligence back from Philadelphia with news of the compromised Culper Ring, along with the appearance and confirmation of Director Andre appearing in this era. It also brought the appearance of Commander Creighton bearing news of your era's war effort, establishment of a chain of command through your Major Tallmadge, and the location of the devices that have transported you and your people to this era. Agents Tallmadge and Sackett also confirmed the information: they are located somewhere here in Philadelphia, New York, and Boston. Commander Creighton and the _Ember of Winter_ , a fascinating submersible I must say, are currently located in Boston. I am quite confident that Agent Sackett will be bringing news of your appearance to them.”

“And may I presume, General, that the core of this discussion is of this chain of command that has been established?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “Even without the confirmation of the complexity in these two eras mixing, I propose the complete separation of all units, except for the 2nd Light and Legionnaires. Those within the Continental Army who have advanced weapons will be allowed to keep and utilize them, but the majority of the them will be returning to Morristown in the coming days. For over the past year since the arrival of your Major Tallmadge and his 2nd Legionnaires, I have requested that they help in certain skirmishes, and I while extend that same request to you, but I do not expect you or your men to respond to it. I believe that if either of our armies have a chance of winning our respective wars, we must be ready to separate if the successful location and destruction of the three devices that have enabled the mixing of our eras is done. The less we integrate and depend on each other, the better we will be off.”

“I concur with the assessment,” she said, nodding, “though I do caution against a full separation and no dependency. I will be moving my people to another camp as well, but all units should at least maintain communication with each other. While the British-Britannian forces were defeated at Monmouth, I have no doubt that Director Andre and those of your era's British High Command will be planning to retaliate. Your aides were kind enough to give me a summary of what has been happening so far in the war, and with what seems to be an early establishment of the Napoleonic War in Europe, British resources in the West Indies would most likely be utilized to supplement the loss up here. They will strike again, and the second strike will not be as separate as it had been during Monmouth – they will most likely strike in the same manner as the way battles are fought in my era.”

“With these native-like tactics that your Major Tallmadge and Lieutenant Brewster described as 'guerrilla',” he stated, placing the cup back on his desk.

“Yes,” she nodded. “To counteract Director Andre and Major Andre's knowledge of both the historical Culper and Culpeper Rings, I propose that though I will establish a separate chain of command for my people, I will be sending units out into the region to establish a constant surveillance perimeter and engage in skirmishes to keep Britannian forces occupied. I will also coordinate the intelligence gathered with my era's Head of Intelligence. Boston was the only city in this era that historically could be confirm to be truly free, and I will have Commander Creighton remain there. He will then funnel the regional intelligence down to your Head of Intelligence and from there, we will have a more robust network to monitor British and Britannian movement not only in the Northeast and Mid-Atlantic, but also within the key cities.”

He remained silent, not only because he had thought of the same general idea, though without the previous knowledge that Creighton was the US Armed Forces Head of Intelligence, but because he was surprised at just how similar their thoughts were. Strategic and tactical decisions were made by him in the overall command of the battles thus far, with input from other generals, but since the appearance of the future-people, most of his fellow generals had not been exposed to the future-people and with his experience thus far, he knew that they would have floundered in such adversity. A part of him was still in disbelief as to what had happened, never mind the fact that society seemed to be have been turned completely on its head in madness with the integration and allowing of women to openly serve in conflicts that plagued men's hearts and minds. That part had been successfully quashed at certain times, but there were times when even he doubted with what he was doing, and if he was doing enough to limit the future-peoples' exposure within the Continental Army.

Greene was the only other general on his staff who seemed at complete ease of interacting with the future-people, having already enlisted unconventional types into his own small intelligence ring that had then been integrated into the Culper Ring. He was the only other general whom he, Washington, could trust to have some idea of what should happen to the future-army, now that their regional commander had appeared, but Greene did not have detailed knowledge, nor the complete trust of those of the Culper-Culpeper Ring. He could count on the man to be able to effectively lead a combined, integrated force of future and current armies, but only that.

“I accept that proposal,” he said, folding his hands together again and resting them on his lap.

“I am pleased,” she answered, nodding. “Though I do have one caveat in all of this: if your Major Tallmadge encounters his future-counterpart again, that he'd leave the situation and consequences to me.”

“May I ask why?”

“The Sheridan Rangers are a group that I have been dealing with since the beginning of my military career twenty-three years ago, General,” she explained. “I've dealt with the group not only as a commissioned officer of Britannia, but also as a US Army officer. The 700 who assaulted my position at Sleepy Hollow before being transported here was their main force, and it was only at Haddonfield a few days ago that I finally confirmed who was the leader of their group. While I cannot abide by my most trusted officer withholding such information from me, I understand the reason why he had estranged himself from his family.

“I will, however, not allow him to sacrifice himself in that manner just to save us from slaughter – that was not the intention that I had hoped would happen when they assaulted Sleepy Hollow. I received key Intelligence from Commander Creighton prior to our transport that the leader of the Sheridan Rangers was a former geneticist and had modified the bodies of most of the Rangers to be faster and stronger through a virus, a deliberate sickness of sorts. During the war, that enabled the Rangers to be a powerful force, slaughtering our land units with ease whenever Britannian commanders decided to deploy them.”

He saw her look briefly away, with a faraway look flitting across her eerie-colored eyes that he still could not directly look at without his own mind betraying his calm veneer and mentally muttering oaths. Those eyes looked so much older than the youthful appearance she had, even with her unusually pale skin and even more unusual white hair. However, when she returned her gaze to him, they were not settled directly on him, but rather on his folded hands. “The circumstances of my birth are not natural, even by my era's standards. I was and still am considered an anomaly, an experiment if you will, by scientists who seek to pervert even what the natural order has intended for humans to be.”

“Go on,” he murmured, sensing her hesitation and noticing that she was no longer sitting straight, tall, and proud in her chair as she was wont to do.

She flicked her eyes up at him, and despite his own unease, he kept himself from flinching or looking away – something about the demeanor she currently carried told him that it would not be the best thing for him to do. “I was created, thirty-three years ago, in a laboratory by a group of scientists, as a clone of you, General.”

* * *

_Outskirts of New Haven, Connecticut..._

 

“Huh, I think I like this place better in colonial times than in my era.”

Anna had to suppress the smile that threatened to erupt on her face as she glanced between her husband and her descendant's expressions, with the latter being wondrous and the former almost glowering at the buildings and ships that dotted the port city. Selah had been to the city twice before to negotiate a few supplies from merchants before war broke out. Each time he had returned, she had not heard the end of his complaints about the place and how prices for the simplest of things were much higher than what he could possibly fetch had Sag Harbor or Oyster Bay supplied those same supplies he needed for the tavern.

“How different is New Haven, Andrew?” she asked as they joined in with the many people shuffling into the city on the main road.

“Well for one, no skyscrapers,” he said, gesturing to the sky above the buildings. “No really tall buildings that block the natural sun and skyline, and stunt tree growth. Second, there's actually nice, big deciduous and coniferous trees here – New Haven in my day before it burned to the ground, had fake trees planted in because of so many abnormally short trees in the parks and in neighborhoods.” She heard him sniff the air before saying, “Third, it smells better... cleaner.”

She could only imagine what horrific smell governed such a port in the future, for it smelled like a mixture of tar, salty-sea, fish, wood, and gunpowder to her as they continued to stroll through the streets. As Selah took the lead, she fell in slightly behind him and saw Andrew slip to the side of her. She could see a keen look in his eyes he flicked them this way and that, seemingly looking at everything at once. Though she marveled in the way he seemed to be watching everything at the same time, it worried her – he had not done the same thing while they had been in Norwalk or other towns and villages as they made their way up the coast of Connecticut.

“We should find an inn for now, Selah,” Andrew said after a moment.

“Why?” her husband asked, not even pausing for a moment.

“Something about these people around us, in this place... doesn't seem right,” her descendant said in a vague manner. “I feel like we're being watched, but I don't see anyone suspicious.”

“They're all staunchly for independence here,” Selah argued, and this time, Anna had to take smaller steps as she saw him slow down slightly. “The first and last time Tallmadge's future-counterpart and I stepped through here, no one paid us any attention. They were reading articles from the _Connecticut Courant_ about liberty and of victories that the Continental Army had out loud at the docks.”

“Yes, and where are they now?” Andrew said, gesturing towards the nearest piers.

“Perhaps the fact that Long Island was taken has silenced them for the moment,” she suggested. “Perhaps the crier has not yet appeared.”

“Yeah, but I don't see many happy faces. They look scared... concerned, and uneasy.”

Anna looked around as they continued into the heart of the port city, noticing that her descendant's words had a truth to them. There were still children freely running about, fishermen selling their catch for the day with enthusiasm, and farmers trying to sell their produce. Citizens and visitors to the city strolled about, engaging in whatever their daily activity took them to and did, and there was the occasional appearance of a young scholar quoting law or Latin literature to another scholar. Militiamen were seldom seen, and those who appeared were given a wide berth, as if people were incredibly afraid of them for reasons that she could not understand.

“Maybe,” she began after a few minutes, “maybe we should... find an inn for now. See what is going on? Before we send that message to Benjamin--”

“Anna--” Selah began.

“Mother, Father,” Andrew immediately cut in, stopping in the middle of the street, causing both Selah and her to also stop. “Please stop fighting. As your great-times-however-many-generations grandson, I'm finding it tedious listening to you two argue about the same thing over and over again. Father, Anna is not going to change her ways. Mother, Selah is never going to stop worrying over you. There, now leave it be. Let's find some place to rest and you can argue in private to your hearts' content. And while both of you are doing that, I'm going to explore this place.”

Selah spluttered for a moment, but the momentary anger Anna had against her husband died as Andrew's rather pedantic words made her realize that there was some odd truth to his words. She couldn't help but let a short burst of laughter escape her lips as Andrew didn't wait a moment longer and took the lead. “Oh, and by the way, I'm your brother for this instance, Selah. There's no way either of you can be my parents at my current age and still look that youthful.”

The laughter abruptly died upon her lips as she realized the implied insult that had been levied upon her, not to mention upon Selah as well. Even in jest, it still stung slightly, but before she could follow in her descendant's footsteps, something out of the corner of her eyes caught her attention. It was there for a moment, but the profile seemed unmistakable – it couldn't be could it?

As soon as she turned, all she saw down another street were people walking to and fro, going about their businesses. Who she thought she saw seemed to be a figment of her imagination, and it was Selah's hand upon her arm in concern that shook her out of her reverie. “Anna?” he gently asked.

She looked up at her husband before glancing down the street again, but whatever she saw was no longer there. Shaking her head, she said, “It's nothing. I just thought I saw someone familiar, but I am a little tired from the journey.”

“Let's go find an inn then,” he said, guiding her back down the street they were upon.

She silently nodded, but couldn't help bite a small part of her lips as she wondered if it was not just her mind and body still recovering from the ordeal in New York City that had caused her to think she had seen Captain John Graves Simcoe lurking in New Haven.

* * *

_Somewhere near the New York-Massachusetts-Connecticut border..._

 

Though there was a sense of urgency to establish a strong presence in eastern part of Connecticut as a show of force to the British occupying Long Island, there was also the additional orders from Washington to scout as much of the region as possible leading up to the 2nd Light-Legions' eventual settling in New London. It wasn't that the Saratoga forces sent down had neglected to even provide reports, but the fact that they had been sent down in such a hurry that a few reports had been written, but were considered inaccurate. With the scattering of British forces who had been able to retreat back to New York or Long Island after Monmouth, Princeton, Trenton, and Haddonfield, the Continental Army did not know if there were small units still out in the wild, or of they were gathering once again like they had during the winter at Valley Forge.

Thus the long, arcing route that Ben had had them take to get to this point. Various scouts had been sent out at times, and the gathered information had been condensed and coded before couriers had departed. This morning yielded the same routine and as he read through the latest scouting report that had arrived late last night from one of the 2nd Legionnaires who had traveled up to Saratoga to deliver missives and to retrieve reports from General Scott, he frowned slightly. Saratoga had weathered the bitter winter, but had also been besieged by near-constant skirmishes since the victory last year. Those skirmishes had completely halted since the extraction of several forces, including those of the 2nd Continentals who wielded laser rifles, down to Monmouth.

A day ago, he and a few others had carefully doubled-back to as close as they dared to scout out Fort Westpoint. What they had found was little, for they had not even been able to get to the cliffs bordering the Hudson River that separated them from the fort. However, what they had found was disturbing – fresh-looking soldiers of both British and Britannia patrolled both sides of the Hudson. The armaments they carried were not of flintlocks but were of the laser rifles, and what was even more disturbing was the fact that the British soldiers in particular seemed to be completely at ease with their counterparts and the weaponry they carried. It was odd that such an enemy force, however big, had not even struck Saratoga when they had the chance.

“Sir!” a voice said as the entrance to his small tent flapped open, snapping Ben out of his reading as he realized that he had been staring at the Saratoga report for a while and that the tin cup of coffee that he had held in his left hand had gone completely cold. He saw that it was Lieutenant Adams in the lead, dressed in civilian clothes and just beyond the officer was Natalie, wearing a plain, dark brown working dress.

Placing the tin cup down, he gestured for Adams to enter, with Natalie following the officer, but a third pair of boots followed the two – a woman who stood at least a full head shorter than Adams with brown hair, dressed in the mottled green-black-brown uniform of the United States Army. There was a bounce in her steps as she smartly snapped to attention with a salute but could not suppress a grin that seemed to run ear to ear. Something about her looked familiar, and as he returned the salute with a nod, he realized why. The woman was the one who had thrown the grain she had been eating during the arrival of Lieutenant General Washington and her cohort, up before mashing her helmet back onto her head.

“Agent Sackett and I are leaving for Boston soon, sir,” Adams said. “I hope that you do not mind, but it was at the advice of the agent here that I and the other officers on your staff decided that to help further integrate the 2nd Light and 2nd Legionnaires, an aide of sorts should be appointed to help you with how the future military works and behaves.” The officer gestured to the woman, saying, “This is Corporal Camille Hart.”

“Sir, it's an honor to meet you and serve as your adviser!” the woman chirped.

“Corporal,” he said, placing the report down on his desk before extending his hand out to shake the woman's hand. She had a firm grip, but the grin still had not been erased from her face, and in fact, he suspected that it became wider. Letting go, he then addressed Adams, saying, “I don't mind, Lieutenant, and please pass on my thanks to the other officers. If I may have a word in private with Agent Sackett before both of you leave?”

“Will do, sir,” the officer said before tapping Hart on the shoulder to indicate that both she and him should leave.

As soon as Hart and Adams left, with the tent flap slowly halting its swing, he couldn't help but smile and say, “She reminds me of Samantha.”

“Happy and bubbly?” Natalie said, smiling as well as she approached and took his hands into her own. “Chirpy like a morning bird?”

“Definitely,” he answered, rubbing small circles across her fingers with his thumbs. Though he wanted to embrace her right then and there, he knew that if he did, he would not let her go for he did not want her to go to Boston. He wanted her by his side for a while longer, even if it was just riding side-by-side on horseback, discussing espionage techniques and counter-techniques, or occasionally seeing each other across hastily erected camps at random times during the day. He wanted the soothing peace that she brought to his mind with her presence to last a few more days.

Ever since that fleeting kiss they shared just before he and Caleb had joined the rest of the army headed to Philadelphia to oust the occupying Sheridan's Rangers, he wanted to throw decorum out, but the more rational side of his mind had again, overruled his irrational side. He could not do that to her and did not want to give anyone any incentive to use her against him or vice versa – or at least another chance, for he now realized that a part of him that had drove him to give that particular order during his first encounter with Director Andre in Philadelphia was the fact that he could not bear to lose Natalie. Had the Director, or any other British or enemy soldier known of his deep affection for Natalie, that situation could have been worse – it could have been Natalie being held at gunpoint by Simcoe rather than Ben's father.

Thus not only he held himself from outright embracing Natalie at the moment in his tent, he also refrained from kissing her again. Instead, he content himself on the fact that he was at least able to hold her hands for a few moments before she left. “Come,” she said, shaking him out of his reverie as he realized that he had been staring soundlessly but lovingly at her for the better part of a few minutes. There was a knowing look in her eyes that told him that she had done the same, “you should at least be properly dressed before going out to see Adams and I off.”

He couldn't help but sigh in agreement as they both let go at the same time, knowing that the moments they had together was always fleeting – to keep both of them safe. However, Natalie was faster in retrieving his cravat and moments later, had draped it around his neck. Surrendering himself to her dressage of him, he instead asked, “What is your story to get into Boston?”

“The one that Sam, Carrie, and I used after we arrived here,” she answered as she wound the cloth around and tightened the cravat, before tucking the ends of the cloth between the other folds. “Three sisters, two of whom decided to stay at a farm in Fairfield, Connecticut for the time being, and me, who decided to finally make her way to Boston and to the Sackett family residence there. Only because she was getting bored of the quiet life on a farm.”

“A simple enough of a story,” he said as she stepped back and then retrieved his jacket. As he slipped into it with her help, he continued to say, “I do sincerely apologize if I have made it more difficult for your recruitment mission. There was a docks garrison commander, Major Joshua Smith, who had been smuggling children. Caleb and I, with the help of the main garrison commander, Colonel Thomas Rutherford, and a watchman by the name of Ethan Archer, caught him red-handed in his activities, but Caleb and I were unable to attend the full length of the trial.”

“And the _Ember of Winter_ and her crew?” Natalie asked, smoothing the non-existent wrinkles down the front of his jacket with her hands. “Did they get involved?”

“In a way, yes,” he admitted. “It was only chance that I met Commander Creighton again during my time there. He was very adamant in stating the limitations in which he and the crew would be involved.”

“That's my mentor for you,” she said, smiling. “Always stating the rules and regulations, then going behind those rules and regulations to help.”

“The commander was your mentor?” he questioned, curious. “I thought Director Andre was your mentor.”

“Commander Creighton was my mentor while I was training and doing my thesis at Quantico,” she answered. “He helped me overcome some of my resentment at being recruited. The Director became my mentor after my training was complete and I officially joined MI6.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding, though it was still slightly confusing to him, not to mention, he was still sometimes overwhelmed by just how much more advanced and dare he say it, ruthless, intelligence gathering had become in the future.

“All right, now that you're properly dressed, Major,” she stated, stepping back, eyes twinkling. “You can now see Adams and I off without becoming an embarrassment to the unit.”

“I wasn't aware that we had guests, Agent Sackett,” he said, knowing that she was being facetious with her words. It was rare that they had enough time together in private for him to see her true personality emerge, instead of the stiff, business-like one she presented to everyone else. The only exception was if _both_ her friends, Samantha and Carrie Brewster, were present – then she became quite exasperated at the two.

“Oh, I just wanted a perfect image of my handsome gentleman caller pressed in my mind before I descend into the bowels of a free and wild Boston,” she said, grinning as she lifted the flap to his tent open.

He answered her invitation and stepped outside, and just like that, her relaxed and bright nature was gone as she too exited and stepped in front of him to lead the way. He followed her brisk, no-nonsense like walk to where the wagon, hitched to the robotic donkey with Adams already there, was waiting. Hart was standing next to the donkey, seemingly stroking its face, whispering to it, though Ben found it quite odd that the woman would do such a thing, considering that the beast was not even real.

Still, he managed to ignore it and helped Natalie up to the wagon. Stepping back at the same time as Hart did from the donkey, just as Natalie settled herself, he acknowledge Adams casual salute by forehead knuckling with a silent nod. “Good hunting, Lieutenant and Agent.”

* * *

_Philadelphia..._

 

As the late afternoon sun shone through the windows in the office, Washington found himself lost in thought as he stared out and into the busy streets. No one else was present in the office, though the occasional creak of footsteps on the second floor and outside in the halls was heard. It was not the upcoming departure of the Continental Army that captured his thoughts for the moment; nor of the news that Congress had authorized new bounties to be had and that there had been an unexpected surge of enlistment within the Army, ballooning them to numbers higher and greater than any of them could imagine. It was also not of the curious case of the future-people who had carefully ensured that they were not seen too much by the populace, lest there be mass panic.

It was the words his counterpart stated ran through his thoughts in the quite office, and though that conversation had ended long ago, he had found his thoughts going back to it since the revelation. Had Nathaniel Sackett never given him Agent Sackett's diary to read, he would have never understood the words that Lady Georgia stated in the aftermath – of cloning, of what Director Andre was, and of just how incomprehensible humanity had become in the future. He could not believe that people had the audacity to even try to play God – it was blasphemous in itself, but the proof had sitting in front of him.

He glanced over at the empty, polished oak desk that she occupied in their shared office. While normally he would not have not allowed such a thing, her sudden and quite violent appearance on the battlefield had kindled a kind of protectiveness that he found himself extending towards her. It was the same kind of feeling he remembered sharing towards Martha's children and still keenly felt whenever he received letters from them. Even now, with the revelation of what Lady Georgia was, he still felt protective of her. However, with the way she held herself and especially how others under her command addressed her, he was at a loss as to how he should treat her in private.

Extending his hospitality in sharing his office with her seemed to suffice, for not only had they discussed how to proceed in the coming days, he finally understood what kind of strangeness his old friend, Nathaniel, must have felt with his own counterpart and descendant. But she was not a descendant of his, and the circumstances of her creation was the same circumstances that governed the supposed madness that encompassed the creation of only other 'person' like her – Director John Andre.

It was only from the layman's explanation and from Agent Sackett's diary that he understood her next words after her admittance of where exactly she came from. Both were created as experiments, as copies similar to how one would copy and print the same gazette over and over again except into two souls who were grown and born into different circumstances. No one knew why a quirk of fate, or rather Washington had silently attributed it to God being angry with the fact that Man was trying to harness unto His sacred powers, had granted Lady Georgia to be female.

While both were watched day and night as they grew up, it was only after the age of ten that both were allowed to pursue whatever scholastic endeavors interested them. While Lady Georgia enlisted into Britannian Army, Director Andre had taken an interest in bio-engineering. Washington did not understand what kind of science that was, but only that it was a part of the science that enabled the creation and cloning of both him and Major John Andre. That was where their paths diverged, but they were given limited lives because of how experimental the two beings was.

He had learned that not only was Director Andre supposed to look like Lady Georgia in the physical appearance of white hair, pale skin, and red eyes, both she and the Director's bodies were breaking down. It seemed that God had deemed it a fitting punishment to humanity by only allowing a very limited length of life to be lived by both creations. Director Andre sought to cheat death by somehow copying his mind into different ones and creating bodies to transfer not only his soul but all of himself into it – it was quite incomprehensible to him. Lady Georgia allowed herself to live out her life and Washington knew then without her saying it that she was already dying.

Even without it being stated, it seemed that no one else on her command staff, not even her Russian bodyguards, knew of her circumstances, creation, or how much time she had left on God's good green earth. But there was one thing she was hoping to do before she died, and that was to enlist the help of the one person she knew who could potentially stop the madness that Director Andre created and was governed by.

Assassination.

Not with another attempt that seventeen of their best had failed to do in the future, but by something similar to a plague sickness that only affected her and the Director. Only one of the scientists who helped 'create' the two had not been whisked far away to another land by Britannia, and could potentially create the sickness. But getting help from the scientist had proved trickier than anticipated, with the most recent attempt first ruined at Sleepy Hollow with their unexpected transport to this era, and the next attempt failing at Haddonfield. That scientist Lady Georgia was seeking was the one who commanded the Sheridan Rangers: Commandant Ophelia Sheridan.

What had happened at Haddonfield was something he vividly remembered, but he was quickly jolted out of his thoughts with a swift knock at the door. “Enter!” he commanded as he tore his gaze from the empty desk and back to the door.

Hamilton stepped through, leaning slightly forward as he respectfully said, “Your Excellency, all commanders have gathered in the drawing room.”

“Good,” he said, stepping away from the window as he picked up the small stack of reports on his desk. “And how are Lee and Bradford?”

“Last I heard, sir, they were still silent with no confession, but guards report that it looks like Bradford has accepted his fate.”

“We shall see what the court-martial shows tomorrow,” he murmured. “For now, a promised briefing about these future-people must be presented to the commanders.”

 

~*~*~*~

 


	22. The Spy Manager

**Chapter 22: The Spy Manager**

 

_Somewhere in boring, quiet, unassuming Connecticut..._

 

After the action that he and the rest of the 2nd Light-Legions had faced in the past couple of weeks, Caleb had thought that a quiet, secretive mission to transport the assassin up to a safe house in the middle of Connecticut was a welcomed change. How wrong he had been, for it was not boring in any aspect – no, but quite unsettling for him, and all of it stemmed from the assassin and the seemingly strange persona she had adopted.

Infantile in nature, the assassin whined and cried as a frightened child would whenever left alone. Even gagging her with a cloth and belt did not muffle the sounds she made, and consistently kept the three of them up. They could not sit watch over her, bound and gagged on the other side of the campfire for she still made those awful noise. It was only when one of them sat _next_ to her did she cease her cries.

He had wanted to knock her out and carry her all the way to the safe house slung over a horse saddle, but upon seeing just how injured she had been from captivity, he could not bring himself to inflict more damage. It was unsaid, and it need not be said, but there were some fresh bruises upon her when he and his descendant had arrived at Morristown to pick up their charge and Sackett. Caleb had suspected that Arnold, for all of his lauded heroics and supposed gentlemanly manners, had perhaps allowed the soldiers accompanying him take their anger out on the assassin.

When directly asked by Carrie, Sackett had no answer to the question of whether or not Arnold or his men had further inflicted harm upon the assassin. Only that as soon as he had entered the shed to deliver a personal letter to Arnold did he find the lauded general shouting at the assassin. After that, Sackett had not seen any guardsmen enter the shed until Carrie and him had arrived.

Caleb stretched again as he slung his rifle across his shoulders, draping his arms over the barrel and butt as he resumed pacing once more. There was nothing but woods for miles upon end, but even with the winding routes they had taken to ensure that no one followed them to the safe house, he had to guess that they were somewhere outside of Farmington. Several miles to the east was a town and quite a number of houses, really pretty-looking houses, and both the inhabitants and the town looked untouched by the war.

The door to the safe house slammed closed, causing him to pause in his patrol and turn to see Carrie stalking out with a pinched expression on her face that was normally unconcerned in nature. Concern flooded him once again for her, for their journey to this place had been tense and she had spoken little to them. The first night, he had tried asking her, but she had curtly told him in two simple words – 'fuck off' – to mind his own business.

“Stew's just about ready, Caleb,” she said in a surly tone, approaching.

“Another quiet night in paradise,” he gently ribbed, hoping to elicit the usual cheerful, sarcastic, foul-mouthed manner that he had become used to.

“Paradise my ass,” she said, muttering her words before saying in a louder tone, “Sorry about the past few days.”

“Oh, no,” he said, turning slightly to look at her. “Not like you were out biting our heads off with your 'fuck offs' and 'suck my dick', which by the way, I think I figured out what that second phrase means. Didn't think you had something with a mind of its own between your legs, but what was that word.... metaphorical.... yeah, not bad of a way to tell someone to shove it. You really should think about staying and whaling with me and the boys once this war is done. Your foul mouth can teach them a few new phrases to shout at each other.”

That finally got a bark of laughter from her as he saw the edges of her lips quirk up, with the moonlight reflecting the small amount of teeth that came with the smile. “I'd rather stick to playing hockey with the Whalers, not actual whaling, thanks. Less of a hazard and chance of dying by cold or the sea.”

“And this,” he said, gesturing with one of his hands in the air, “is not?”

“Nope,” she answered, “sorry, but your descendants are landlubbers.”

“So, you still going to tell me to 'fuck off' about what's bothering you these past few days?” he asked.

“What, you're my father now?” she asked, glancing over at him with a dubious look in her eyes.

He gave her a cheeky grin, “In a way, yes. You're my great-whatever granddaughter. It's my obligation to make sure you're all right.”

“Christ on a pony, I feel sorry for your children,” she said, shaking her head. “You're already going to smother them before they turn five.”

“Hey, hey,” he said, taking a step back, holding his hands up, though his arms were still slung over the rifle on his shoulders. “Okay, I understand--”

“I made a promise to Benji,” she quickly said, cutting him off before falling silent. He remained silent as he saw the smile disappear from her face, replaced by an unusually grave and contemplative expression as she stared up into the heavens above. “It's funny, because I'm sure Sam or Nat told you that he defied his family's expectations and went to Westpoint, right?” Caleb nodded. “There were consequences for that. Remember Major Tuomas Jefferson? Guy with the multi-colored hair and dark skin? Loves commanding the Gauss cannons?”

“The guy who Lieutenant Colonel Laurens seems to follow around, studying said cannons when he's not attending to good ol' George?” he said, though he could not help but smile. “That guy?”

“Yeah,” she said, briefly smiling before her expression returned to a more serious one. “I was dating... erm, courting him during my first year at Westpoint. Didn't work out by the way – both of us were too competitive to make compromises. But that's not the point. Benji had no where to go during winter break our first year since he didn't know if his family had outcast him or not, so he stayed with us. Kind of like when you intruded on Ben and Nat's together time in the barn last year--”

“Hey, I didn't know!” he defensively said before frowning, “Wait...”

“Saw it a mile away, grandpa,” she affectionately said. “You could see the sparks flying between Ben and Nat on day one of our arrival. But back to what I was saying... so the three of us spent our first winter in college in a dingy little place outside of the academy. When spring semester rolled around and other students started returning, that was when we found out about the consequence of Benji defying his family.”

She paused for a moment, loudly blowing out a breath before resumed saying, “Benji's father appeared at the entrance to the cemetery we have near the academy grounds. We usually take a morning run in and around the campus and run near there. He spotted Benji among us, gave a casual wave of his hand, and then pulled out a flintlock much like the ones you guys use, and killed himself. Shot himself in almost the same place that Simcoe shot Ben's father.”

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, unable to say any other words to express what he felt at such a horrific revelation. If Ben's haunted expression in response to his father's death last December was anything to say, he could only imagine what Ben's counterpart must have felt seeing eerie similarities in that death.

“The thing is,” Carrie said after a few long moments of silence, “Benji's father didn't voluntarily do that. He was compelled to – manipulated by drugs and other things, similar to how people are addicted to tobacco and opium in your era. The autopsy showed signs of such manipulations, such compulsions on a genetic level that was supposed to be not possible, and though such a scandal should have ensued, it never did. Britannia covered it up because the Tallmadge family was considered noble in a sense...long history, very wealthy, politically powerful before and after Britannia's take over, and all that. But Benji had his answer – he was not welcomed at home ever again. However, Benji suspected that his mother had done something to his father's genes to create some sort of compulsion command. His mother was a famous geneticist, known for her pioneering ways of manipulating the genes of ill babies at birth to ensure that they grew up healthy and strong. She did a lot of pro-bono, good-will, work with that.”

“Genes?” he asked, unfamiliar with the word.

“You can say that she was, in a way, playing God of sorts to make sure that children did not grow up to have crippling ailments. That's why high expectations for Benji to follow in her mother's footsteps were set. His initial defiance to go to Westpoint instead of Yale caused a scandal in the societal circle he lived in... which is much, much wealthier than what I was from. Compared to this era's standards, I grew up like a pauper while he lived like a king. Tuomas's family is in the same kind of societal circle as Benji's family was, so he understood it better than I could or ever can.

“Britannia may have tamped the scandal down on the outside, but they had no control over the inside of the academy. People can be very vicious, especially if they resent a rich kid essentially getting a scholarship to a competitive school and seemingly wasting their opportunity for a chance to be great. Benji was threatened and almost quit school, but Tuomas and I stopped him from doing that. From there on in, Tuomas, me, and Benji, we made a pact to watch out for each other. The students at the academy eventually saw Benji for who he really was, but he stayed with Sam and her family over the summer after the first year was over. After he met Nat and started to date—sorry, court—her, he started to spend his breaks in Russia with her. Until she disappeared off the face of the earth. But by that time, the seeds of rebellion were being planted. He, along with the rest of the classes at Westpoint were of the same mind and agreement.”

“Wait... you're not saying...” he began. “All of the 2nd Legionnaires?”

“Not all of them,” she said, shaking her head slightly. “Most of them. Colonel Sheldon was deputy administrator of Westpoint, but it was Benji who rallied most of us to the call for rebellion. He convinced Sheldon to go back to the school to rescue the students before Britannia could take it, but I'm deviating... Because of what he suspected but could not fully prove what his mother had done to his father, he made me and Tuomas promise to stop him if he ever returned home and returned to us like his father had.”

“Stop him... how?” he asked, though there was an unease forming in his stomach as he suspected that he would not like the answer, no matter how benign it was.

“Kill him before he can do any harm,” she simply answered. “By any means necessary.”

Caleb was silent for a very long moment before a wave of inexplicable anger rose within him. “What the hell is _wrong_ with all of you?!”

“Absolutely nothing,” she answered with a thin, unfriendly smile upon her face. “We're such a fucked up society four hundred years into the future that its a wonder none of us have blown each other to kingdom come.” A bitter bark of laughter escaped her lips as she continued to say, “You see that woman we have with us? Agent Abigail Woodhull, number 722 of the Culpeper Ring, descendant of Abraham Woodhull himself? _That_ is what Benji's father looked like before he shot himself! I gave you the clean version to spare you the hideous details.”

“Jesus, I don't think I want any supper tonight,” he muttered as he glanced away, even though his stomach was saying otherwise. After a few minutes of silence with only the sounds of nighttime creatures filling that silence, he turned back and quietly asked, “Do Samantha and Natalie know?”

“About the promise? No. They know what happened to Benji's father, though, but only the details I initially told you about – not what he actually looked like before he shot himself. In hindsight, I should have told both of them – Sam would have been able to stop Abe from rescuing his descendant.”

She paused again before looking down at her feet, absently kicking some grass and dirt before saying, “Tuomas and I, we're fully trained soldiers, trained to kill, trained for one purpose – war. Sam... with her training in the hands of MI6 can probably outright kill, but she's not a soldier. Sam and Nat... they're spies, they're the blade between the ribs, so to speak, the assassins in the shadows if need be. Tuomas and I are the guns, the ones you send to the front lines to defend all others. I don't know Benji's mother, but you can bet that since she's a Sheridan Ranger, she's going to exploit Benji for all of his worth. They might be staying out of the war for now, but that's only because Benji's going to make them stay out for as long as possible. If she does the same to Benji as she might have done to her husband... and to Abby if my suspicions are correct, then Tuomas and I are the best chances any of us will have to stop him.”

She stopped and huffed out a long sigh. Despite her youth, Caleb saw the age in her eyes and her stance – it was much older than her actual age; as if she had lived two life times over and was still trying to repent for her sins. “You can tell them if you want, hell I don't care if you tell Ben... but it's not going to stop either Tuomas or I from making sure that Benji does not suffer as his father did, or as Abby is at the moment. We made a promise as brothers and sisters in arms, and we intend to keep it or die trying.”

“But what about Woody... Woodhull... Abe, I mean,” he asked as a sudden thought crossed his mind. “Samantha said that he's been in and out of your Deputy Director Simcoe and Director Andre's so-called hideout for the better part of a year.”

“I'm sorry, Caleb,” she said, turning to fully face him, “I truly am, but if I were Ben, I would have burned Woodhull long ago. He was compromised the day entered that facility and started working with Simcoe. I don't agree with keeping him on the ledger for the Culper Ring, even if it is to prevent Arnold's defection. He's a liability, even more so that both Director Andre and Major Andre probably know who and what he is and are most likely letting him live to instill a false sense of security for us and for himself. It's classic agent manipulation 101 with a compromised agent who thinks he or she is still of use. Whatever intelligence he gathers or disseminates as a counter-intelligence agent will be useless and untrustworthy.”

“Yeah, well Washington trusts Benny-boy's judgment, and he seems to be of the same mind that Woody is still useful,” he pointed out.

“I know,” she answered, turning her gaze back up to the heavens. “It's all fucked up, this shit, and as an intelligence officer, it really pisses me off that for all that I've been trained to do, I can't figure out what either Director Andre or Major Andre have in mind – Woodhull and the others in New York should not even be alive, but yet, Samantha says they are. Deputy Director Simcoe cannot compromise his own position between the two, and yet...”

Caleb removed his arms from draping over the rifle as he slung the rifle back around before patting his descendant's arm. “Hey, isn't that what Sackett's going to use the truth serum on Woody's descendant for?”

“Yeah,” she said, sighing again. Something within Caleb's heart tugged in sympathy for her plight. His initial anger at just how messed up the world and society in general had become in the future was trickling away. Somehow, they had survived, and even his descendant had come out quite resilient in the face of impossible odds. He had no right to rail upon a society that he could not even begin to comprehend.

“And don't worry about Tall-green-boy. I'm sure that the Tallmadge trait of being a stubborn arse is pretty strong, with all things considered,” he continued to say.

“But it is a mighty-fine arse to look at, isn't it?” she said, looking back down and finally cracking a smile that he thought he'd never see again upon her face.

“The women think so,” he said, matching her smile with one of his own. “You and your Tall-boy... did you...?”

“Aw hell no,” she said, shaking her head as a genuine bout of laughter escaped her lips. “He's my best friend, Caleb. I only went with him to the academy's gala during our first year because I felt sorry for him. For all of his rich kid good looks, he couldn't find someone to go with... or at least anyone he was interested in – they were all taken by the time he asked. For all of his adherence to military protocol, never mind that beard thing he grew out in this era, the boy's a procrastinator in some aspects of his life. Besides, Tuomas had come down with the flu, an illness, so I wasn't about to drag him out of bed to go to a stupid party. But fear not, Benji killed the second year gala with Nat by his side.”

She immediately fell silent, but he was not alarmed by it, and was instead, quite puzzled as she frowned slightly and hummed. “What?” he asked.

“I do wonder,” she began, tapping her chin with a finger. “If that's why... hmm,” she shrugged, “well, wouldn't put it past him to be a sneaky bastard. Mr. Sackett, you are way too observational to be human... maybe that's where Nat's got your sense of uncanny skills.”

“Something I shouldn't know about Mr. Sackett in the future?” he gingerly asked.

“Oh no,” she said, shaking her head. “I think I got Sackett's modus operandi figured out for his plans with Nat, but I'm not going to say it for the fear of jinxing my theory.”

“Modus operandi?”

“Method of operation, methodology or habit of working,” she supplied. “He's like a puppet master, the one pulling the strings behind the curtain, but that's just me, reinterpreting what history says about him.”

“Your history is strange,” he said, shaking his head slightly. His stomach rumbled again and he mentally sighed. “Lets go back in and eat.”

“I thought you said you had no appetite,” she said.

“I still don't but you... you haven't eaten so much in the past few days,” he said, affecting a wagging finger that he remembered his uncle used to do to him whenever he was in trouble, before being afflicted with palsy. “As your grandfather, I have to make sure you're staying healthy.”

“More like a father at this rate,” she muttered as she allowed him to guide her back to the safe house.

“Was he a good man?” he asked, curious.

“Don't know,” she said in an uncaring tone. “Left mom and I when I was five years old. I distinctly remembering him shouting at mom and calling her a whore. Never contacted us after that. I took mom's maiden name instead of his.”

“Oh,” he quietly said as they entered and went to the small dining room. The pot of stew that Sackett had been cooking was sitting on the table and three bowls had been set out, though one was already filled and being eaten.

“Never thought you two were ever going to come back in,” Sackett simply said from where he was sitting and lapping up what was left of his portion of the stew in his bowl with a piece of bread. “Fed the girl earlier, but not that much. I'm not sure what the truth serum will do to her, so I'm taking some precautions.”

“You're interrogating her tonight?” Carrie asked.

“Questioning,” Sackett emphasized, giving both of them a keen look. “Preliminary questioning.”

“We'll help you prepare then,” she said.

“Sit and eat, you two,” the older man said, shaking his head slightly. “I have much to prepare and don't need you two fainting from the lack of food.”

“And who's being a father now?” Carrie snorted as she sat down and helped herself to a few scoops of the stew from the pot. She looked up at him and gestured with the ladle, saying, “Hey, Gramps, you need to eat too!”

Caleb's sigh turned into a chuckle as he placed his flintlock rifle down next to the entrance and sat down and took the ladle from her, saying, “I'm never going to live down that nickname, ain't I?”

“Nope, Gramps. You give Abe and the others nicknames, I do to. It's time you finally acquired one from me.”

“Aw, I'm touched, but does it really have to be 'Gramps'?” he asked as he finished scooping out as much stew as he could stomach and started eating.

She merely smiled and resumed eating. It didn't take them long to finish the meal as they heard Sackett fluttering around in the drawing room, seemingly talking to both himself and their prisoner at the same time. With a fuller belly, but still unable to stomach as much food as he normally ate, he pushed back his bowl and wandered over into the other room.

In it, sat their prisoner, Abigail Woodhull, bound tightly to a wooden chair. The bruises that covered her bodies were looking far better than they had, but were now mottling into a yellow color. Even in the firelight, whatever had been done to her during captivity was most likely causing her pain, but the expression upon her face was absolutely terrifying. It was beatific, and she was staring up at the ceiling of the house as if something up there had completely caught her attention and she was quite happy with what she saw. He saw Sackett by the dying firelight, measuring out something liquid from a small bottle that looked quite clear before administering three drops into a tea cup.

“Stand back,” the man said as he capped the bottle and stuck it in his vest's inner pocket. He saw Sackett pick up the saucer of tea and brought it to the girl. “I'm just going to give this nice tea for you to drink, Miss Woodhull. Nothing more.”

The only answer that they received was a wide grin and a childish laughter. Caleb wanted to turn away from the sight and leave, but Carrie's footsteps into the room prevented him from leaving. Instead, he focused on her and what she carried in her hand. It was a small device, blocky, with two strings sticking out of it and what looked to be like buds attached to the end of the string.

“What's that?” he asked, pointing to the device as he tried his best to ignore the slurping sound of their prisoner drinking the laced tea.

“Digital recorder. It's usually rigged to the robotic horses so that if the brass needs footage of an operation to confirm kills and the like, they have it. But I yanked it out of mine and re-purposed it so that we can record whatever Woodhull has to say under the truth serum. That way, we don't have to take shorthand notes and can replay whatever she says at our leisure. I did disable the video portion because if this ever falls into the wrong hands, they can only identify us by voice and not by sight.”

“Video?”

“Heh, I'll tell you about it some time later, Caleb,” she said, giving him a brief grin before nodding towards Sackett. “She's ready?”

“Give the serum a few minutes,” Sackett said as Caleb turned to see the man place the teacup down on a tiny footstool near the fireplace before taking a seat on a stool that had been positioned a few feet away but in front of their prisoner.

Caleb stood to one side while his descendant stood on the other, holding her hand out with the device, ready to capture a confession. Their prisoner's head was lulling on her chest as she shook once, twice, before lifting her head back up, her expression no longer in awe and completely blank.

“What is your name?” Sackett carefully asked.

“Abigail Thomasina Woodhull,” she answered in a flat tone with little inflection.

“When and where were you born?”

“September 11th, 2151 at King's College Hospital in New York City, New York of the Britannia Commonwealth States.”

“Who are your parents?” Sackett continued to ask after receiving a curt nod from Carrie that the answers thus far were correct.

“Maryanne Kicking Horse and Thomas Woodhull.”

Sackett paused for a moment, looking up at Carrie with an utterly puzzled expression. Caleb was also a bit confused at the name of Abigail's mother, but his descendant promptly clarified it, saying, “Her mother is a member of one of the many native tribes originally settled before English, French, or Spanish colonization.”

“Ah,” Sackett said, nodding. “Where did you go to college?”

“I did not go to college,” the girl calmly answered, still stating her words in a flat tone. “I was offered a position within the Ministry of Intelligence, Section 6 after getting caught cracking into their databases during my final year of high school. I joined the information technology analysis department.”

Caleb saw Sackett turn slightly towards Carrie once again as she nodded her affirmation. Seemingly satisfied, he saw the man turn back and settle into his seat, a new kind of calmer, much more serious demeanor than he initially displayed taking over. Sackett gently picked up the girl's right hand and flipped her hand over so that the underside of her wrist and palm was facing up. Pressing two fingers to the side of her wrist, the man said, “I'm going to ask you some questions, Abigail, and I want you to answer them with as much detail as possible. Will you do that for me?”

“Yes, I will,” the girl said.

“Brewster, is your contraption still recording this?” Sackett asked.

“Yep,” Carrie answered.

Sackett didn't say a word for a moment as he continued to hold the girl's hand, “Abigail, do you know how many and whom are the field agents under MI6 Director John Andre's command who did not rebel against Britannia?”

“Yes. There are twenty-three inactive agents and seven active agents. They are--”

“Only the inactive and active ones sent to the First Revolutionary War, Abigail,” Sackett interrupted. “If there are any, please.”

“Only the seven active ones have been sent. They are Jonathan Simcoe, Robb Howland Townsend, Abigail Thomasina Woodhull, Irina Petrovna Sackett, Peter Sackett, Yelena Nikolayevna Sackett, and Magdalena Alton-Tallmadge.”

“Wait, that can't be right,” Carrie spoke up before Sackett could ask his next question. “Peter and Yelena Sackett, along with Maggie Tallmadge _died_! They were part of the seventeen assassins sent to kill Andre!”

Caleb glanced over at the two in alarm before sliding his eyes to the girl who sat eerily calm in her seat with the blankest of expressions upon her face. Not only were the supposed dead walking around, there was also the mention of Simcoe, specifically _the_ Simcoe who had helped break this girl out and allowed Abe and Samantha to escape. They had only accounted for two of the seven mentioned, and the fact that another name that sounded familiar, Robb Townsend – a little too eerily similar to one Samuel Culper Junior, number 723 in the ledger, Robert Townsend – worried him.

“Where are they?” he brusquely asked, stepping into the girl's path of view.

“Lieutenant!” Sackett admonished.

“Where are they, Woodhull?” he repeated, ignoring the man. “Where is this Irina Petrovna Sackett? Where are all of them?”

He thought he saw a slight tremor upon the girl's lips, but it seemed that his outburst did not even affect her while she was under the serum. “Last known position of Irina Petrovna Sackett was Sleepy Hollow, New York. Last known position of Jonathan Simcoe was the Cognitive Genetics Research facility in New York City, New York. Last known position of Robb Howland Townsend is the Polytechnic Institute in Boston, Massachusetts. Last known location of Magdalena Alton-Tallmadge is--”

She never finished her sentence as she suddenly rocked slightly to the right before toppling over to the ground, a great amount of blood splashing out from the two holes that had appeared out of nowhere on either side of her head. Caleb heard his descendant shout out her warning moments before she slammed into both him and Sackett, pushing them to the ground. He hit the floorboards with a jarring force enough to rattle his teeth as he bit the inside of his cheek. However, with the way that Carrie had pinned both of them down, he could not move without causing quite a bit of pain to lance up and down his back. All he could do was stare ahead at the lifeless body of one Abigail Woodhull as her blood continued to trickle out and puddle on floorboards.

The three of them stayed absolutely still for what seemed like forever in a day, before Caleb had enough and tried to squirm enough to free his chin to work his mouth around. “Hey--”

“Shh!” Carrie sharply said, but allowed him to move a little so that he could look up to see that her eyes were closed but that she had tilted her head slightly to listen as carefully as she could. “Don't hear anything,” she whispered after a few moments. “Leave Abby where she is and stay away from the windows.”

The pressure upon him was suddenly released as he barely heard her boots scrape the floor as she picked herself up and belly-crawled to the nearest window. He rolled over to the side as Sackett rolled onto his back, and mimicked the same movement that she did. However, she held out her hand for him to stop as she shimmied up to take a very quick peek out of the bottom of the window before shrinking back down. She made a 'come here' gesture and he continued until he managed to sit up against the wall next to her. Sackett was still lying on his back, but had turned his head towards the two of them.

“I'm going to scout out a perimeter,” she said, her voice still in a whisper.

“What?!” he hissed.

But she did not heed his protest and instead, plowed on, saying, “If I'm not back in fifteen minutes, take Sackett here and get as far away as you can.” She then leaned in and said, “Here's the contact phrases for under duress and in the clear...”

Caleb frowned for a moment as she whispered the phrases into his ear in such a soft tone that he wasn't sure he heard correctly. However, before he could stop her, she rolled across him and swiftly scampered out, door to the entrance of the house softly clicking close. He didn't even get to reach the entrance to the house before hearing the familiar whine of a robotic horse being unleashed and then the clip-clop of hooves on the ground fading.

By the time he turned from the entrance, he saw Sackett half-crouched at the entrance to the room where they had been conducting their interrogation, hiding as much in the shadows of the dying firelight as possible. Caleb resisted the urge to voice his frustration at what his descendant was doing while trying to suppress the admiration he had for her for taking charge and remaining quite calm in the face of what had happened. Going back to the dining room, he made sure to stay out of the sight of windows as he picked up the flintlock rifle he had set to the side and handed it Sackett. There was little they could do against such a marksmen, but it was better than not being armed.

The wait was not as long as he anticipated, but he still worried about not only her, but of what the girl had said before she had been killed. There was a soft knock at the door. “Who is it?” he asked in as casual of a tone as he could while waving Sackett back to the small kitchen.

“Suck my lily-white nutsacks, arsehole,” came the reply.

Despite the tension and situation, Caleb nearly rolled his eyes at the ridiculous phrase that they had agreed upon. He opened the door a crack and visually confirmed via the dying firelight that it was indeed his descendant and that no one else was with her. Opening it further, she slipped in and he closed the door with a thump after her. Turning, he saw that she looked quite windblown, with her formerly neatly bunned hair askew, as if she had been riding around her robotic horse at its fastest setting without the liquid armor on.

“There's no one suspicious for miles,” she said, placing her hands on her hips. “Couldn't find any evidence for at least a mile in radius for a sniper rifle, but I wouldn't put it past that one of the three assassins who was sent after Andre in our era named by Abby killed her.”

“A mile away?” he asked, blinking and staring at her in surprise.

“Those three, Nat's parents and Sam's mother – they were the best long-range assassins that either the US or Russia produced. They were ghosts in the intelligence community before they retired. I only know about them because of Nat and Sam. But enough about that, we don't know where they are, but we have names. Caleb, take Sackett to Ben and get him to safety. The 2nd Light-Legions will be much safer for you two--”

“No--” he began, shaking his head quite vehemently.

“Oy, I stand a better chance of taking down Nat's sister than you do!” she said, cutting him off. “Besides, I can get the info to both of our General Washington and we can get our resources spun up to look for the other agents. I can also get into New York and warn Sam about Simcoe and the others. You... you need to let Ben know what's going on and what happened. I think the safest place for both of you is with the 2nd Light-Legions.”

“She has a point,” Sackett spoke up, emerging from the kitchen, hands still gripping the flintlock rifle in a defensive manner. “With all things considered, I think informing Natalie would also be prudent, which can be easier done when we join the 2nd Light-Legions. The fact that the last known location of both Irina Sackett and Jonathan Simcoe are the same locations that we know of based upon recent events, can allow us to safely assume that this Robb Townsend may already be in Boston.”

Caleb wanted to shake his head, not only at how frustrating it was now, but the fact that their best lead in trying to stop Director Andre and this mess of a merge was killed by potentially three extremely dangerous assassins. “What do we do about the body?” The question sounded incredibly callous to even himself, but he knew that at least Abe's descendant was now resting in peace in heaven and no longer being manipulated by some madman's schemes.

“Burn it,” Sackett said, holding out the rifle towards him. “Burn the house too. It's compromised.”

Caleb silently nodded as he took the rifle back and slung the belt over his shoulder as he took his blocky advanced rifle out at nearly the same time Carrie did. Together, the three of them crowded at the door, with Carrie taking a quick peek out before nodding for Sackett to leave first. As both he and his descendant started firing indiscriminately away and into every conceivable area that could burn quickly – curtains, fireplace, chairs, tables... all of it, he couldn't help but wonder if they were ever going to untangle themselves from this mess.

* * *

_Setauket...(is mostly flat!)_

 

“Abraham, whatever you're doing, whatever you have been doing for the past year, stop it. Please.”

Abe gave his father his best puzzled look that he could manage as he place his hands on his hips, saying, “Farming? You want me to stop farming? You know I tried to go back to law school while we were in New York, right? It didn't work out, father.”

“No, I don't want you to stop farming, Abraham,” his father said, looking slightly exasperated as Abe inwardly smiled to himself, knowing that he had managed to slow whatever momentum his father had been building up prior to this long-delayed talk they were now having. “I just... Abraham, I want you to stop this... stop this sneaking around and spying business—”

“You think I'm a spy?!” he scoffed, trying to keep his composure as best as possible – of a son who was greatly offended by his father's words. He had expected words from his father with regards to his conversations with Anna, for he had a suspicion that while they had been out of earshot, they were never out of eyesight of any British persons while in the city. “What in God's name makes you think that I would do such a dishonorable thing?”

“Abe!” his father admonished. “Do not invoke the Lord's name in vain, not while under my roof!”

“Sorry,” he said, though he was quite insincere about it, and it reflected his true feelings. “But, what makes you think that I'm even doing such a thing, father?! Surely not Anna! Surely not the rumors that have been going on about us?!” He took a step forward, flinging his hand out towards the entrance and before his father could say a word, he continued, saying, “Well, you can stop listening to those rumors, because they're not true!”

“No,” his father said, continuing to look as if he was slowly losing his argument, “not because of Anna, but because of that man, Major Rogers. Major Hewlett may have vouched for his being here for whatever he's investigating, but your very public argument is a problem. Now, hear me out--” he saw his father hold up a hand to stop him from interrupting him “--now I don't know what this Major Rogers is investigating and frankly, I don't want to know, but I asked a few friends in Oyster Bay and Sag Harbor, and they said that he went missing last year. Now he shows up. Here. And the first thing he does is pick a fight with you.”

“Maybe he was sent to parts unknown? Maybe he went back to England?” Abe said, carelessly shrugging. “Believe me, I don't want anything to do with this Major Rogers.”

“Good, then you'll not engage in any of this spy business with whatever British contacts he has--” his father began, but then the sounds of the front entrance opening and the familiar sounds of Hewlett greeting one of the servants was heard, along with another unfamiliar voice. Moments later, Hewlett entered with a unfamiliar redcoat who was carrying a small canvas satchel following him.

“Ah, Richard, Abraham, good to see both of you together,” Hewlett said. “Abraham, I hope that the rats that have infested your house have been taken care of. I know that you and your wife were looking forward to welcoming back Ensign Baker to your home, but alas, that is not to be. The good ensign will be quartered with Mr. Dejong until further notice. However, I'd like to introduce you to a Sergeant Stephen Creighton.” Hewlett gestured to the man standing next to him. “He's here as a favor I've pulled from a few of my contacts at Sag Harbor and will be conducting the search for An—Mrs. Strong. He will now be quartered with you and your wife, Abraham.”

Abe eyed the tall soldier a bit dubiously, unsure whether or not he would be able to get away with as much as he had when he first started spying for Washington. The man looked quite keen and attentive to every single detail that surrounded him, which was good for someone searching for Anna, but bad for him. However, he was a guest within his father's house and despite his unease, he needed to maintain his cover. There was also the fact that his father had assumed that he was spying or working with spies for the British, which helped his case a little. Perhaps this Sergeant Creighton of Sag Harbor would be able to benefit him in the long run with the information he gathered in the search for Anna.

“Well,” he said, putting on as bright of a demeanor he could, taking the few steps forward while extending a hand to shake the soldier's own for a brief moment. “Welcome to Setauket.”

“Thank you, Mr. Woodhull,” the soldier said.

“Well, I guess its up to me to show you where the farm is, eh?” he said, taking this opportunity for all its worth to again, cut off whatever was left of the lecture his father was going to give him. “I can leave you there for now to settle in, but I have to go into the town to pick up Mary and my son.” He knew for sure that Mary was not going to be happy that there was yet another boarder in their house again, but at least he had some time to prepare a proper excuse, unlike the first time.

“Thank you, sir,” the soldier answered and with a wordless nod towards Hewlett and, Abe left.

Outside, he hopped on the front of the cart while the soldier slung his satchel over and into the back before taking a seat next to him. Taking the reins, he slapped it upon the horses' backs and soon, they were off. While not quite summer yet, he could feel the waning cool breeze of spring start to fade as the heat of what promised to be yet another sticky and hot summer bear down. He needed to start tilling the fields soon and plant his cabbage if he had any hope of harvesting and earning some money with his crops.

The ride to his house was quiet, but just as they reached the half-way point, within a thick bed of woods that provided relief and shade from the sun, the soldier spoke up, saying, “711 and 721 send their greetings and a message to not worry about New York or what happened there. We have friends and allies already trying to mitigate the damage. You're not alone, 722.”

Abe was barely aware of his actions that involved tugging the reins on the horses until they slowed down enough that the cart halted on the road. “What?” he stated, head snapping straight towards the soldier.

Instead of immediately answering, he found that the soldier had taken the reins from him and slapped them on the horses' backs again to get the cart moving again. “Lieutenant Stephen Creighton of the Philadelphia militia attached as a special detail to General Greene of the Continental Army, at your service, Mr. Woodhull.”

“Wait...” he breathed out. “w-wait, wait, wait... you're a _Continental officer_?!”

“Yes. I am.”

“Prove it,” he said, folding his arms across his chest, warily looking at the soldier. After what happened in New York, he was very skittish about trusting even the most benign of people he met. Hell, he still didn't even trust Rogers for all of his proclamation, and right now, the man was no where near Setauket, having claimed to need to go to Oyster Bay for something or another.

“That satchel has a notebook in it. I'm sure you'll find that it is encoded in a similar manner that 722 has dictated that we of this spy ring all use,” Creighton said.

Abe turned around and grabbed the satchel, opening it. He rifled through the small possessions, mainly provisions for powder, musket balls, and some hard tack and salted meats before finding a small, leather-bound notebook. Gingerly taking it out, he held it up for the soldier to see and upon a nod of affirmation, he opened up the notebook and flipped through the pages. It was as Creighton said, the pages were encoded with the latest notebook that had been delivered to them, right down to the unique Latin law words that he recognized.

However, he was not entirely assuaged by what he held in his hands. “How? How did you managed to infiltrate here, Lieutenant? I thought Sag Harbor was under British control?”

“Miss Samantha Tallmadge helped infiltrated all of us from the tip of Long Island, all the way to New York City. She's still at Sag Harbor, helping another of our ring to solidify his cover as a blacksmith, but she'll be here soon. There are already two agents in the city to help 723. Major Rogers has been informed and is the relay between the city and here. I'm the relay to the Connecticut coast where 722 is, and incidentally, I'm also to search for Mrs. Strong... so that part of my story is true,” the soldier answered.

“What about me? What am I, useless now to 711?” he asked, feeling a tinge of jealousy and hurt that because of what he had done and what had happened in the city over the past year, Washington had had to send five agents to replace three of them.

“On the contrary, Miss Tallmadge has explicit orders to protect you and if need be, get you and your family out of Setauket,” Creighton answered.

“What?!” he said, staring in surprise at the officer. “I'm not leaving.” Not that he doubted that a woman from the future would be able to protect his family, much less him, but he still wanted to be useful, still wanted to do what he felt was right and continue to serve Washington in this particular capacity. “Look, my father thinks that I'm a British spy, working with Rogers for all he knows! I'm under the good graces of Hewlett, and after what happened in New York, I cannot just leave it at that!”

“I think you should tell Miss Tallmadge that yourself, sir,” the soldier said. “But you should know that you're compromised, sir. Why Major Hewlett doesn't know of your true affiliation yet is a mystery to me, but since you've encountered at least some of these Britannian people before, you must have an idea of what they're capable of. They're going to come after you, Mr. Woodhull. Would you really want to put your family in harm's way, knowing that?”

Abe looked away as silence fell between them. However, it seemed that the soldier was not done yet as he heard the man softly say, “Sir, we're here to hold the door open as long as we can. We can establish a safe route and excuse to get you and your family out of Long Island, but it will not last long. The combined forces of England and Britannia are still reeling from their loss at Monmouth, Trenton, Princeton, and Haddonfield. The way is clear, and once we get ourselves established, you cannot stay.”

“So you're saying that 711 wants to put me out to pasture like an old horse? To live out my life in what... in secrecy and hidden away while others around me sacrifice their lives in this war?”

Creighton didn't answer his question and instead, halted the horses, stating, “We're here... I think.”

Abe looked up and sure enough, they were at the farm. As quiet and as peaceful as it looked, the house and the bare fields suddenly looked quite foreboding and menacing. Chirping birds seemingly overlapped with the sounds of rifle fire, as Abe briefly closed his eyes in despair before opening them again. He had to choose between family and his want to do his duty for Washington, and it was a choice that tore him apart. He wanted his family to be safe, but with the underlying threats that Creighton had spoken of that were surely coming for him, he could not risk them. He had to choose, and he didn't know what to do.

* * *

_Some random, creepy alleyway in New York City..._

 

“I got you now, you little thief!”

Robert looked up from where he had been sitting in the dingy, dirty, and awful-smelling alleyway as he saw two redcoats surround a small child with tattered clothing covering him. The child was clutching a loaf of bread in his dirty hands and fearfully looked up at the soldiers. He sighed to himself as he picked himself up, knowing that he really should not get involved, but couldn't help himself. Ever since Woodhull had left the city, he had been trying his best to continue on with the duties of spying and finding out information, but with the influx of British soldiers into the city, his efforts had been quite stymied.

Thus he sought to expand his network of thieves and beggars, and they had all formed a pact of sorts – an honor code if one wanted to call it that – which had initially made him laugh out loud before he realized that they were as serious as he was about their duties to oust the British presence from the city. Though this urchin facing two redcoats did not look like one of those who frequently associated with him and the rest of the adult thieves, saving another thief from the British was always the right thing to do.

“He's just a boy,” he spoke up, getting up from the ground, dusting his hands as he walked towards the redcoats. “Look at him! He's starving! Can't you just let him be?”

There was a menacing smile upon one of the redcoats as the other chortled in laughter. They took one step forward, brandishing their rifles at him. The child bolted and hid behind Robert's legs, but he held his ground as the soldiers advanced. “Robert, why do you get yourself into these messes?” he muttered to himself as he remembered just a few months ago, the same thing had happened to him, except that this time, he was sure that there was no Samantha Tallmadge to jump down from the rooftops to save him or the boy.

However, before either soldier could step to the side to flank him on either side, two dark figures suddenly slammed into their backs, driving them into the ground in a spectacular fashion. The rifles clattered to the ground and bounced forward, stopping only when Robert held out a foot to prevent them from rolling any further.

Just like last time, he blinked in surprise, but less in shock as he saw his two saviors stand up, brushing back their unkempt hair that had fallen into their eyes. One was male, dressed in what looked to be clothing that were just a little too large for him, and the other a female, dressed in a dirty brown dress. Both had dark-colored hair and looked similar to each other, enough that he knew that they were related.

“That was quite an interesting move and fun to execute,” he heard the young woman whisper to the young man. “We must thank Samantha next time we see her for teaching us how to do that.”

“I agree. It was quite fun,” the young man said before returning his attention to Robert, asking, “Robert Townsend?”

He tensed up, ready to bolt as he felt the child he had protected peek out once more before taking a rather large bite of the loaf that had been stolen. “Who's asking?” he challenged.

“711 and 721 send their greetings and us to help. I am James Hattersfield and this is my twin sister, Leigh. You're not alone anymore in this endeavor.”

* * *

_New Haven..._

 

“Are you sure you saw him?”

“I may be a woman who shouldn't climb to rooftops such as this, Selah, but I am _not_ blind! Why on earth would I lie about Captain Simcoe?!” Anna insisted, angry that her husband doubted her words.

The sliver of moonlight in this cloudy night did not afford them a lot of light, but where they were currently crouched on a rooftop, next to a cupboard hole of sorts that looked more like a chicken coop than anything else, they could not afford any further light. She could hear the soft cooing sound of the bird that Andrew had clutched around his hands as he paused in tying the small message that she had encoded last night to the bird's feet.

They had not meant to stay in New Haven for this long, but because Selah did not exactly remember which rooftop housed the messenger bird, it had taken them some time to finally find where exactly the future Major Tallmadge had hidden away the way to send a message to him and the 2nd Legionnaires. Of all the things, she would have thought that the message would be passed on via some strange-fangled gadget that she could scarcely believed existed, but it turned out to be the most mundane of items.

A bird was to be their messenger, or more specifically, a carrier pigeon, that Andrew had also remarked upon with awe. It was then that she had learned that carrier pigeons were completely gone – extinct as Andrew had put it – in the future and this particular one was brought from the future. It had been created via a process called cloning, something that she still couldn't fully understand for it sounded much too close to those who did it in trying to become God. But the process to create this bird and modify its natural instincts had not been fully fleshed-out, so to speak, and thus the bird could only send a message once and would not return.

Which brought her back to what she had seen earlier in the day and had spent the greater part of the afternoon observing while Selah and Andrew had been preparing for tonight's sneak through the rooftops to this place. While New Haven was not under martial law and had a few companies of militia patrolling the streets, tensions were high in the port town. Because of their closeness to Long Island and the fact that more than one white sail from British ships had been spotted in the past few days on the Sound, New Haven residents were becoming agitated. That in turn, made militiamen step up their patrols, which in turn, made it harder for Selah and Andrew to sneak around rooftops.

Andrew's caution against trusting anyone in the town except for themselves was well founded, now that Anna had been sure that her first sighting of what she thought was Simcoe, was in fact actually Simcoe. She had barely recognized the man without his white powdered wig, dressed in civilian clothing and carrying no visible weapons. But it was the fleeting glance of his frighteningly familiar face from far away that told her it was him.

There was another purring hoot from the pigeon as she heard Andrew do something before opening the cage that the pigeon had lived in and shoving the bird back into it. “What are you doing?” Selah demanded with a hiss.

“If this Captain Simcoe is _anything_ like his future counterpart, then we need to stay and find out why he's here and what he's doing,” Andrew said. “Remember, we only have one chance to get a message out, and given the rumors and unsettling climate surrounding Connecticut, we'd best not waste it.”

“We'll take the pigeon with us,” she insisted. “That way, if we need to send the message immediately, we don't have to wait for nightfall.”

“Anna--”

“Don't 'Anna' me, Selah!” she said, holding up a finger to silence her husband. “This is what Caleb, what Ben, what _Washington_ expect me to do – to spy, to find out as much information as I can to help the cause! Either you're going to accept what I do – what I have done, or we're done.”

“What?” Selah exclaimed, raising his voice slightly higher than a hissed whisper. “We can't divorce without a magistrate's approval!”

“Guys, enough! Shut up!” Andrew angrily cut in just as they heard some sounds of suspicious militiamen below the rooftop square they were crouched between. There were a few more shouts, mixed in with the more prominent sounds of Andrew yanking the chicken coop door open again and taking the pigeon back out. Moments later, the distant sounds of warning bells from a church were sounded.

“We have to go!” Her descendant did not have to say that order twice as the three of them scrambled up and made a mad dash towards the ladder on the far side of the square, determined to get back down to the ground and hide before New Haven's militiamen could find them.

* * *

_Morristown, a few days later..._

 

“So tell me Miss Sackett,” Washington spoke up in the midst of the sounds of tinkling utensils upon porcelain plates as he and his guests for tonight's evening meal ate. “I've always been curious as to the educational opportunities that one had in the future. I understand that there are military academies where one can obtain a multitude of knowledge on certain subjects pertaining to warfare. However, I have not heard of the opportunities that a traditional college affords. Would you happen to know of the opportunities?”

His aides, Hamilton, Laurens, and Lafayette, along with Arnold had been invited to this private dinner with Lt. General Washington and her three bodyguards. Though his counterpart had done as promised and settled her people somewhere between the northwest border of New Jersey and Pennsylvania and not at Valley Forge, the lines of communication were open and quite strong. The corridor that spanned the two camps was the most secured and non-British or Britannian occupied territory they controlled. It was even more secure than Boston or her surroundings, and it was due to the multiple, overlapping patrols that were plucked from the Continental Army and the US Army.

He saw the young woman, Irina, place her utensils down on the table with a sort of grace that he had not seen in a while before folding her hands in her lap while turning her attention to him and said, “I only know of what my sister, Natalia, has told me of her time in Yale University. My brother and I were enrolled in a community university of sorts in Novosibirsk before our government called upon us to take up arms. However, even with such little time in higher education, I do know that if one wanted to study what they wanted to or had a passion for, they were able to.”

“Basket weaving, sewing, butter churning?” Hamilton asked, though Washington saw a twinkle in his eyes.

However, the answer his aide received in return was as serious as the expression she wore as she stated, “Yes, if those are one's passions, then textiles and advance production in the field of farming can be learned. The people of the world will always need clothing and food.”

He had to hide his smile behind his napkin that was raised to his lip for a moment as he saw that his aide's attempt in being facetious and somewhat belittling at the same time had fallen quite flat. While the three female agents of the Culpeper Ring had an unusual sense of humor that manifested at quite odd times, it seemed that his counterpart's three bodyguards possessed none at all. Serious in their duties but enough to know that there were times when such stiffness need not be displayed, he found it an odd contrast to the life that the Culpeper Three, as he had mentally taken to calling the agents, had brought to the house.

The pause in conversation as Hamilton turned slightly pink in shame was stopped quite suddenly as Arnold cleared his throat and raised the glass of red wine into the air. “I'd like to call for a toast,” the man said. “To the victories that God has seen fit to give us thus far and to the many more that we will have until the British and Britannia are ousted!”

“Here, here!” Laurens said, pounding the table with a fist as they all raised their glasses to the toast.

As Washington brought his own glass of wine to his lips, he barely took a sip when the door to the dining room was opened and in stepped his manservant. William looked quite apologetic as he said, “General, sir, Lieutenant Carrie Brewster is in your drawing room and has urgently requested to talk to you and the Lieutenant General here.”

He glanced over to his counterpart, who had an unreadable expression upon her pale face. There were concerned looks upon those around the table, and though they were only mid-way through the meal, he knew that William would never disturb any sort of private gathering unless it was life or death. Given that the Brewsters-two's had been assigned to escort both Sackett and the assassin prisoner to the safe house in Connecticut, he could only assume that Sackett had discovered something crucial to the war effort that was related to life or death while questioning the assassin.

“If you will all excuse us for a moment,” he said at last, knowing that it was not the most polite thing to do, but there was no way around it.

Pushing his chair back slightly, as the sounds of the others around the table stood in respect, he slowly stood up, still feeling the pain and stretch of his still-healing wound, but ignored it. Leaving the room, the door shut behind him and his counterpart quite softly as he strode down the hall to his drawing room. Opening it, he was rewarded with the sight of Lieutenant Brewster looking quite agitated and relieved at the same time. “Well?” he asked in a brusque manner, as his counterpart closed the door behind them.

The lieutenant stepped closer to the two of them and dropped her voice to a whisper that could barely be heard by either of them. “Abigail Woodhull is dead, but before she was killed by a sniper, she gave us the names of Andre's seven active agents within this era. One of them is Irina Sackett.”

“Proof, Lieutenant,” his counterpart demanded in an equally curt tone, narrowing her eyes.

He saw the woman reach into one of the many pockets in her mottled-colored uniform and draw out a small device that had two dark strings with buds of sorts sticking out of it. His counterpart immediately took the device from the lieutenant and handed one of the string and buds to him. He saw her put the other within one of her ears and realized that it was a device of sorts designed to transmit what he hoped was noise to his ears. While he could not just stop and marvel at such a device, he mimicked the actions of his counterpart and placed the bud within his own left ear. After a few moments, he saw his counterpart press something on the device attached to the string and bud.

What he heard through his left ear was remarkable as the voices of Sackett and the Brewsters-two came through as if they were standing and talking right next to him. However, that delight was quickly dashed as the questioning began. He could feel the frown upon his face growing as he listened to the confession wrought by the truth serum that Sackett had administered. That was suddenly silenced by the panicked shout from Brewster. There was a scuffling sound as he heard the thumps of bodies hitting the floor before the noise suddenly dissolved into static.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw his counterpart remove the bud from her ear and did the same to his. Looking back up, he said in a low, hushed tone that matched Brewster's initial one, “Your recommendation, Lieutenant?”

He saw the lieutenant give a quick glance over towards her nominal commander, but the woman gave no indication of her feelings or thoughts. “We kill her, quietly, without either Volkov or her brother knowing. I can do it myself... make it look like an accident.”

He looked over at his counterpart. “General Washington?” he asked her.

“I recommend keeping her alive for now. She has had many opportunities to assassinate either you or I. I am curious as to why only she has been turned and not Volkov or her brother. I believe Director Andre is playing at something if he has kept three of the seventeen agents sent to assassinate him alive, and turned one of my bodyguards and a Culpeper agent to Britannia's side.”

“Ma'am, pardon my presumption, but that's an extremely dangerous plan,” Brewster said.

“Yes, it is,” she agreed. “Which is why I ask that this information does not leave this room, nor be told to any of the aides or bodyguards. This may be our only chance to truly see what Andre is doing on Britannian side in an Intelligence manner and not through the varied intelligence about British and Britannian forces gathered by the Culper-Culpeper Ring.”

* * *

_New London..._

 

“Helicopters?”

“Yep!”

Despite himself, he couldn't help but gape in surprise at just how absurd it was on how a few select groups of the US Army stormed a position four hundred years into the future. It was so far-fetched that even the tales that Caleb had told to him of what outrageous stories whalers traded about legendary pirates sounded tame and comprehensible. He could not believe that people in the future would go on to create flying machines, light enough to carry one person, let alone many.

“Ah, shit, I just blew your mind again,” he barely heard Hart, his integration aide within the 2nd Light-Legions, say. “ _Scheisse_ , I really need to stop myself more often.”

“Pardon?” he asked, unfamiliar with one of the words she had spoken.

“Nothing, sir,” she smartly answered. “Sorry for doing that again. I just like passing on knowledge about stuff like that to people who don't know.”

“It's all right,” he said, reassuring her.

It had been a few whirlwind days since their settling in New London, and while most of it had been taken up with him compiling the reports being brought back by the scouts and ensuring that his men and women were adequately taken care of, the rest of what time he could spare was devoted to learning how warfare was conducted, four hundred years in the future. There was also the process of learning how to distribute the combined group in an effective manner to scout out the region.

Though the 2nd Light-Legions were not quartered within New London, their presence could not be fully masked from the populace. However, he took care to ensure that his men of the 2nd Continentals were clearly seen out and about, rather than those dressed in the mottled-colored uniform of the 2nd Legionnaires. No one had the funds to cobble together to purchase uniforms for the 2nd Legionnaires on such short notice, and even if they attempted to dress in tailored clothing from the shops in and around New London, such a massive purchase would rouse any persons' suspicions even further.

There were also inter-personal issues between the two groups that still needed to be worked out, but Lieutenant Winters, nominal second-in-command of the 2nd Legionnaires even before their transportation to this era, had reassured him that it was being taken care of by the other officers and ranking non-commissioned officers. His fear of the men, his men in particular, potentially taking advantage of the fact there were women around had not been entirely unfounded, but neither had it completely settled. For now, none of the officers had reported any incident that necessitated whippings or any other more extreme forms of punishment.

“Ben!”

Both he and Hart turned as the rapid footsteps of Caleb upon the wet docks was heard. While no where near the center of the town, he had both been taking in the town and its surroundings while discussing the integration of the 2nd Light-Legions with her. Hart was still dressed in her BDUs, but there was an oilskin coat, oversized for her frame and build, but long enough to wrap around her to disguise her uniform without stifling her from the spring warmth, from any prying eyes that passed them. To an outsider, it would look like he was talking to a sailor, whaler, or dock worker that happened to work in this particular area of New London.

She was not fast enough, but he saw her eyes light up in giddiness as Caleb approached before sobering up quite quickly and said in a crisp tone, “I'll see you back at camp, sir.”

“Thank you, Corporal Hart,” he answered before she gave both him and Caleb a curt nod and left. He frowned as soon as she was out of hearing range, noting that his friend was quite ruddy-looking, as if he had run all the way from where ever he had been at the safe house to here. “What's the matter?”

“Culpeper 722 is dead,” Caleb began without preamble.

“What?!” he said, barely remembering to lower his voice so that his shout did not attract the attention of the fishermen who were two piers over.

“Carrie, Sackett, and me, we're not sure who killed her, but she was killed by a long-range rifle while Sackett was questioning her. Shot straight through the window of the safe house and into her head. Carrie estimates that she could have been shot from at least a mile away.”

“A mile--” he began, but quickly shook his head. “What...how? How did you guys survive?”

“That's thing Ben,” Caleb answered, tone and expression more serious and grave than he could ever think possible. “The marksman only killed her and didn't bother coming after us!”

“Christ,” he muttered, resisting the urge to flatten a hand against his face in frustration, lest there be eyes everywhere watching his every move. While he was sure that New London was friendly territory, he did not discount the fact that there were more than likely observers and lay-spies working for British interest in the town. The fact that the Sons of Liberty were still quite active here told him as much.

“Sackett's back at camp, hiding away in Adams's tent and there's stuff you need to hear from him, Ben,” Caleb continued.

He nodded and together they left the docks. “Where's Brewster?” he asked.

“Headed to Washington himself,” his friend answered. “Sackett'll explain more once we get some privacy.”

Though the 2nd Light-Legions were camped on the outskirts of New London, it took him longer than he liked to get back at camp, and it was not the fact that the streets were not crowded, but the fact that he had to resist the urge to run and cause a panic in the streets. He knew that his friend could be serious when he needed to be, but that was usually softened by a joke or some crass humor of sorts that lessened the tension in the air. The fact that since Caleb had arrived at the docks, his friend had not even attempted to alleviate the grave concern that hung in the air – that told him just how bad the situation was.

When they finally arrived at camp, everyone seemed to act as they normally did. But as he walked through towards where Adams had pitched his tent, he could see the keen look in many of the soldiers eyes, including those of the 2nd Continentals. While he was sure that Caleb did not tell anyone else what had happened, his friend's agitated demeanor and probably Sackett's appearance at the camp was causing a stir. He knew that even with his own words to the officers, that tension would never be alleviated – they were all quite aware of their duties to prevent both British and Britannian forces from winning the war in the era.

While the camp was an eclectic mix of the white canvas tents and the mottled-green ones that seemed to blend in with the forests, most of the mottled-green tents had been picked up by their recent passing through Stratford before heading up north to follow the Housatonic River for a while. Despite the insistence of Lieutenant Winters that he take and quarter himself in one of the more spacious and warmer mottled-green tents, he politely resisted. Not that he needed the space – he needed it – but he had become quite used to the cramped quarters of his own tent and the fact that if for some odd reason he could not sleep, he could easily pluck a report off of his tiny desk and read it to help lull him to sleep. That and cramped quarters limited the amount of people who could gather in one place, allowing him to give the proper attention to each scout who reported back with their findings.

He spotted Adams standing outside of a green tent, seemingly looking quite nonchalant, though there was a very attentive air about the young man. While he wasn't sure of the exact age of the officer, he had to guess that Adams was either his own age or perhaps a year or two younger. “Sir!” the officer said, snapping to attention.

“I apologize for kicking you out of your own quarters, Lieutenant,” he said, nodding as Adams relaxed slightly.

“Not a problem, sir. Shall I prepare an escort party?” the officer asked.

“Not yet, Lieutenant,” he said, before opening the flap to the tent and entering. As soon as the flap closed, enveloping Caleb and him within the tent, he saw that Sackett was sitting on a few crates that were piled in Adams's tent, nervously weaving his hands apart and together. His mentor had looked up upon his entering, but had not stood up, nor made any of the usual odd gestures or quirks of nature he had expected to see from him. That really worried Ben.

“So,” Sackett began, still not standing, “It looks like there are seven active agents that are under the guidance of this Director Andre. Two of them, Jonathan Simcoe and Abigail Woodhull, are accounted for, though the latter of the two is dead. The other five... well, it seems that Lieutenant Carrie Brewster is already on her way to take care of one and to pass the news onto General Washington and his counterpart.” The man paused for a moment, looking down before looking back up with a pinched expression upon his face. “Irina Sackett of the Russian Secret Service and bodyguard to Lieutenant General Georgia Washington is a Britannian agent.”

Ben was barely aware that his mouth hung open for a few moments as an odd ringing started up in his ears but then suddenly died. He attempted to turn around to walk back out of the tent, but it was Caleb's hand upon his shoulder that snapped him out of his fugue as he heard his friend say, “Ben, there's more.”

“But... Washington... both of them--”

“Ben, Carrie's taking care of it,” Caleb insisted. “Sackett and I were speculating on our way here that she's probably not going to assassinate either of them yet – that Andre, both of them... if Director Andre has told Major Andre... both of them need information about troop movements and the like. What better person to have as a fly in the lard than a bodyguard? She had so many opportunities after Woody's descendant struck to kill either of them, but she didn't. Carrie's taking care of it.”

“But she's... she's Natalie's... sister,” he said, looking over at Sackett who still had not risen from where he sat. “Natalie needs...”

“Yes, she needs to know,” Sackett softly said, looking much older than he already looked. “And there's more...”

“Another of the agents goes by the name of Robb Townsend, similar to our Culper Junior, but we think he may already be in Boston—Ben wait!” The grip on Ben's shoulder tightened as he attempted to leave once again. “The other three are supposed to be dead, supposed to be a part of the initial assassins sent to kill Andre back in their era. Natalie's parents and Samantha's mother supposedly survived and are now working _for_ Britannia. Carrie thinks that one of the three might have shot Abigail Woodhull.”

This time, he was rooted to the spot, even with out Caleb's hand upon his shoulder as he felt numb and shocked at the same time. While he had known Caleb to be an excellent prankster back when they had been young, and occasionally pulling a great sort of mischief that was quite elaborate – this particular report was no joke at all. The irrational thoughts that he had flying through his mind, thoughts to go warn Natalie of the danger she was in, disappeared the instant Caleb lifted his hand up from his shoulder. He needed to be rational, needed to think beyond his own wants and needs – the fact that Sackett, Caleb, and Caleb's descendant had managed to extract seven known agents and names before their source was killed was a boon.

Samantha had told him just how heartbroken Abe had looked while rescuing his descendant, and he didn't know how he would be able to convey to Abe what had happened after Abigail Woodhull's capture and detention. He wasn't even sure he could face Abe after all his friend had sacrificed to get into New York and extract as much information as possible. He was also not sure he could tell Samantha herself about the recent information that of all people she had thought dead, her _mother_ was still alive and turned into a Britannian agent. She had lost her cousin who was like a brother to her, and had thrown herself back into her work to stave off the sorrow and now...

“So for all that had happened with Abe and Anna in New York, we can't even trust this other Simcoe,” he stated, rubbing his forehead with two fingers, feeling a headache start to form as he focused on the one thing that seemed not so mad in the mad world. “We need to tell Samantha.”

“Ben, the poor girl--”

He held up a hand to silence Caleb's protest as he continued to say, “We need to tell her because she's the ring master for the city and Long Island. She needs to know what enemy agents are in play and who she can fully trust. I also need her to get to Simcoe, the other one... not our era's Simcoe, and find out _where_ Anna is!”

“So Anna's alive?” Caleb asked.

“According to the recent reports delivered from our Philadelphia transplant, Lieutenant Creighton, there's rumors of a few people seeing a woman matching the description of Anna who was last seen on the shoreline near Norwalk. We don't know where she is, but I've already dispatched scouts out to the southern Connecticut coastlines,” he said, wishing he had the report handy so that he could show Caleb.

“As for Natalie,” Sackett began, finally standing up as he owlishly blinked but still had an extremely grave expression upon his face, “I wish not to hurt her with the news, but she too must be informed. But it is another matter that dictates my heart... specifically my wife and children.”

“You want to get them to safety--” Ben began.

“On the contrary,” his mentor interrupted, “they are perfectly fine where they are.” He saw his mentor fish out a letter from the inner pockets of his vest. “I received a letter from my wife while we were still in Philadelphia, and in it she spoke of what had happened during the winter months of your exile to Boston.”

Ben swallowed, “I am terribly sorry that--”

“Sorry, my boy?” Sackett said, his seriously expression suddenly turning into a rather interesting one that looked more like the proverbial cat that ate the canary than anything else. The grim smile upon his mentor's face was unsettling, as the man continued to say, “I could not have asked for a more chaotic situation than what you had left in Boston.”

Frowning in puzzlement, he glanced over at Caleb, reassured to see that his friend had also a confused expression upon his face. “Pardon?”

“This war... it has been changed by the appearance of Britannia, hasn't it?” Sackett asked. Ben nodded in affirmation. “And due to other interests in France and Great Britain, we shan't expect much help from our new allies, correct?”

“Yes... that is what the reports that Washington said Congress and our ambassadors abroad have stated,” he answered.

“British interests and rules of warfare in our era dominated most of the battlefield for Monmouth, Trenton, Princeton, and Haddonfield. They did not fully integrate the Britannian forces within them during those battles, but we anticipate that in the next major encounter, those 'rules of warfare' will be thrown out. So why not cause some panic amongst the two factions trying to suppress our freedoms? Why not cause a civil war amongst themselves?”

Ben opened his mouth once, twice, but closed it for a long moment as he thought about Sackett's words. While very crafty and quite ingenious, he still did not see the point between the mess he had left behind in Boston and what his mentor was proposing. “How?” he finally asked.

“That is something that I have to tell you in detail once we reach Boston,” Sackett said. “But I will need the assistance of the Marquis de Lafayette, along with our French Intelligence agent, and the three ships and forces that the Marquis has brought from France herself.”

“Mr. Sackett,” he began, seeing a flaw in the plan, “General Washington specifically positioned us here to _monitor_ British and Britannian forces, not to incite a battle in and around Boston! They are still recovering from their brutal occupation at the hands of British forces, and I for one will not bring war to their doorsteps.”

“With the right words, applications and show of force, we won't,” Sackett cautioned. “We just need the British to start panicking and Britannia to think that whatever they did to incite this Napoleonic War in Europe has failed.”

“So how does this help our situation... help Woody and the others... and stop Andre from sending his assassins after all of us?” Caleb asked. “I mean, if he's got people who can kill a mile away, we're as good as a beached whale in a hunt!”

“He can send his assassins, but given what we know of him, and from what Natalie has told me about him, he still does not have the political hold that he needs,” Sackett said, still holding onto the unsettling smile upon his face. “Part of that comes from, dare I say it.... from Major Andre and whatever influence he has with British High Command. He won't dare send assassins against those in Boston, lest he involve civilians in this war, not if Major Andre and others above him have anything to say about it. After their defeat at Monmouth and failed attempt to retake and hold Trenton, Princeton, Philadelphia, and their second defeat at Haddonfield, I think that if we give the political landscape the right push... we might just be able to start fully turning the tide and allowing your agents, Major, a little room to breathe.”

“There's something that you're not telling us, Mr. Sackett,” Ben said, frowning. “And considering how dangerous it is out there from recent reports, especially the routes to Boston, I'm disinclined to let you leave nor escort you to the city myself.”

He saw his mentor huff and sigh for a moment as the smile disappeared. Sackett folded his hands together and pinned him with an inscrutable look before saying, “Fine, but this does not leave this tent, nor will I elaborate until we get to Boston.”

“Agreed,” he said, albeit it was very reluctantly stated.

Sackett glanced over to Caleb who nodded at first, but after a few moments, also stated, “Yeah, sure.”

The man seemed to wobble slightly, but Ben was not sure if it was a trick of the flickering candlelight within the tent or not as his mentor said, “My wife was formerly known as Lady Elizabeth Lancaster, daughter of Admiral Lord Viscount Edward Waltham Lancaster before she married me. I... I was under the employment of the British Diplomatic Corps.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No... no he wasn't in real-life. Neither was his wife.


	23. Manipulation and Deceit Are Ingredients in Rhode Island Chowder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter alert: certain characters are being drama-llamas because they can and will.

**Chapter 23: Manipulation and Deceit Are Ingredients in Rhode Island Chowder**

 

_Salty Tea Party (Boston)_

 

While the breeze was much cooler than she was used to on such a warm spring day, Peggy had found herself readily adapting to the changes that was now her life. At least she thought she was adapting to the weather changes and still not the actual reason why she remained here in this city that smelled like soured fish. That was still an uncomfortable thing she lived with each day when she opened her eyes and found herself staring at a bare, white ceiling. Whereas a year ago, she would have been staring at a luxurious tented and thick bed curtain that kept all manners of light away until she will it to appear with a flick of her hand to part the curtains.

While the family she lived with and governed their children for were certainly not paupers, they did live quite well below their means. Mrs. Sackett was a successful merchant in running her apothecary shop, but Peggy suspected that most of the earnings went towards helping her husband with whatever he did to aid the Continental Army. She was much too polite to inquire, but the clothing that she had been given by Mrs. Sackett were still of quality that was comfortable and fashionable for someone of her age. However, in turn for the measure of mercy that General Washington had given her, she had mentally vowed to fulfill the duties that she was given and to protect the Sackett children at all costs – it was the least she could do to atone for what she had done last year in Philadelphia.

But now, the true nature and extent of the mercy that General Washington had shown her was finally being revealed to her, and even with her convictions, she was not sure if she wanted to be party to certain _things_ of a clandestine nature. One of which was an offer from the woman who sat next to her, seemingly content in quietly embroidering within their Sunday sewing circle.

“Natalie, where did you say you were from again?” It seemed that others of the circle were not content to let their new guest be as one of women, Elissa Howland, if she remembered correctly – a pretty young woman whom she clearly had seen jealousy rush over as soon as she had set eyes on her – spoke up. Peggy had tolerated the snide quips and snips that the woman had given her at each Sunday circle, knowing that she had faced and given far worse during her time in Philadelphia. To her, Elissa's attempts at convincing the others that she was prettier than her was quite amateurish and petty.

With the arrival of Natalie Sackett, whom she remembered quite well as being prisoner of the horrible man, Director John Andre, nearly three weeks ago, also came the offer to become a spy of sorts and work with the Continental Army. That was what she had been thinking about in her free time, the offer to be party to something of a dishonorable nature that could get any persons caught and hung, even if they were a woman. However, this was Natalie's first appearance at the Sunday sewing circle, for Peggy was well aware that the woman had spent the first couple of weeks establishing her cover story.

Even her young charge, Mrs. Sackett's daughter, Charlotte – or Lottie as she was known to most, sitting on the other side of her in this sewing circle, had been forbidden by her mother to mention Natalie or the appearance of Natalie until the cover story was solidified. Peggy had sympathized with poor Lottie's confusion over such matters, especially with the sudden appearance of a supposed 'cousin' of hers that she had never heard of before. While she knew that Natalie's story about being cousins was a complete fabrication, it was only because what she had witnessed in these past few months that she knew it was the safest story to go with. It was then that she realized just how frightening of a world she had embroiled herself in, especially with just how many secrets she was already keeping. It also did not help that Natalie had pointed that out to her a few nights ago.

However, with the arrival of Natalie, it also afforded an excuse for Peggy to ensure that Lottie was not present at the sewing circle for the last couple of weeks. Far be it that the arrival of one of the supposed people from the future was another cause for concern, it was the women of the Sunday sewing circle that worried her. People had overheard Lottie's request to write to Major Tallmadge just before the young Major had left – and while his answer to her request was only known to her, Mrs. Sackett, and to little David, Lottie's boldness had drawn the attention of those who admired or were jealous of her. One of those seething in jealousy was Elissa.

But now the young woman had turned her attention to Natalie, and Peggy was left wondering if she should have warned the young future woman of the rather petty women of this Sunday sewing circle. She could only find comfort in the fact that at least Lottie was not the current target of Elissa's ire and snips at the moment, even though Lottie had some idea of where Elissa's haughty demeanor was drawn from.

“Virginia, near the mouth of the James River and where the Chesapeake Bay meets the Atlantic,” Natalie answered in a rather demure and shy tone. It was a far cry from the confidence she had displayed in private, and Peggy was puzzled as to why she adopted such a passive stance. “My sisters and I grew up on a plantation that spanned three hundred acres. Our parents thought it prudent to send us up north to safety when word reached us about fighting between militiamen and British soldiers in North and South Carolina that were spilling into Virginia's borders.”

“And your sisters, did they not come up with you to Boston?”

“No,” Natalie answered, shaking her head slightly. “We initially stopped by Morristown, New Jersey to see our uncle, and he helped send us the rest of the way to Farmington, Connecticut last year. Though we were supposed to have arrived at Boston this past winter, my sisters were tired of traveling and decided to permanently settle just outside of Farmington.”

“Oh, how nice,” Elissa said, picking at a thread on the embroidery she was currently working on. Peggy suddenly had an image of a coiled snake, much like the ones on the banners she had seen being occasionally paraded around that stated 'Don't Tread On Me', overlapping Elissa. “Have you heard from your parents since leaving?”

“My sisters and I have written to them, and I can only assume that they have attempted to write back, but letters crossing between contested lands are seldom seen again--”

She abruptly fell silent as a shadow fell across the open door to the schoolhouse they were utilizing as their meeting spot for the circle. “Father!” Lottie cried out, dropping her embroidery and scrambling out of her chair so fast that Peggy barely had enough time to put a hand out to keep it from tipping over and crashing to the floor.

“Well,” Elissa huffed, as the women of the circle saw Lottie all but leap into her father's arms, quite ecstatic and happy to see him. Peggy didn't fault Lottie for not showing the proper manners of a woman her age – she remembered her own fond memories of doing the same to her own father whenever he came home from a long day in court before her own governess had expunged it from her. However, Elissa was quickly silence with the graceful rising of Natalie who had placed her own embroidery on her chair and stepped out from the circle.

“Uncle,” Natalie greeted as she walked down the short aisle, but abruptly paused before she could reach her 'relatives'. “May I ask who has accompanied you?”

Peggy saw a myriad of expressions briefly play across the patriarch of the Sackett family's face as Lottie lifted her head from being buried within her father's chest and also stepped back. Just as Mr. Sackett stepped to the side, a familiar figure donned in a bright blue-white jacket with pale beige trousers and carrying his gold-with-white-horsetail helmet, stepped into the schoolhouse from the bright sunlit outdoors. She found herself unconsciously raising a hand to her mouth as she realized with dread that far be it that Major Tallmadge was here for a social call of sorts – the officer was delivering news of a more personal matter.

There was a remorseful and grim expression upon the young officer's face as she and the others in the schoolhouse saw him extend a sealed letter out towards Natalie, and heard him quietly state, “Miss Sackett, please accept my condolences for your loss.”

She saw the woman shakily reach out and take the letter from Tallmadge before opening it. Peggy was already racing towards her, etiquette be damned, even before she fully collapsed onto the ground with her cries of denial shattering the relative silence in the air. Cover story or not, she could tell that Natalie's tears and sorrow were genuine – the woman had truly lost someone in the war.

Before she reached the woman, Mr. Sackett had already waved Tallmadge back and she caught a glimpse of the officer and his regretful expression before he left, knowing that he was not welcomed or wanted in this time of grief. She took Lottie to the side as she saw Mr. Sackett kneel down and draw the woman closer to him, embracing her as if she were another daughter and gently rocked her back and forth.

Patting her young charge in reassurance as she saw sympathetic tears form and fall on Lottie's face, she looked up from them and caught the backwards glance that Tallmadge had given them as he paused on the street. She watched as the young officer looked down at the ground for a moment before wearily resumed walking away, leaving her wondering just how many letters of condolences did Tallmadge and other officers had delivered to families thus far in this damnable war?

* * *

_Later..._

 

“I should have stayed at the schoolhouse!”

“Yeah, well, we're going to their house now, Tall-boy,” Caleb said, keeping his voice as low as possible as both he and Ben walked through the nearly empty streets. Only the occasional yowl of a stray dog scampering after whatever it was hunting, or the shuffling of homeless people trying to find some comfort in whatever area they had decided to sleep at, rang through the air in the city. At this ungodly hour of eleven-thirty at night, Boston was quiet, though Caleb did hear the faraway sounds of a group of militiamen patrolling with the night watchmen.

“I...I shouldn't have said those words to her,” he heard his friend say in a softer, more mournful tone.

Caleb clenched his jaw for a moment as he briefly closed his eyes and then opened it again. It wasn't any of his business and certainly he did not want to get too deeply involved with whatever relationship Ben had with Natalie, but this... he couldn't stand to see his best friend despairing over something that no one had seen coming. He abruptly stopped and turned, placing a firm hand on Ben's chest before forcefully propelling him back into a brick wall.

“Caleb! What--”

Pinning him against the wall, Caleb stepped up close enough to brush his beard against Ben's chin and said, “Look, Ben, _none_ of us knew that she was going to do that! Sackett guessed wrong! Told you the wrong words to say to her! It. Is. Not! Your! Fault!”

Stepping back, he removed his hands as he saw Ben absently rub his chest for a moment before shaking his head, seemingly trying to clear the mental cobwebs that he suspected had fallen on him. He knew that there was truth not only to his words but also Sackett's assessment of the future-woman before they had decided on this particular course of action.

Days upon end of traveling through winding routes just to get to Boston without detection by increasing British scouts had given the three of them time to plan what should happen when they got to Boston and how the plan should be executed. Of course, after that shocking revelation by Sackett about his prior employment and his wife, the man had done as promised and did not say anymore about himself or his family until they entered the city limits. Of course, what had been told to both him and Ben after they entered the city limits had been very brief and Caleb suspected that more was to be revealed tonight when they would hopefully solidify the plan.

While Sackett and Ben had been directed by Sackett's wife to the schoolhouse where Natalie was, Caleb had taken that time to visit the central docks and find out what had happened to Major Smith and the others. What he found was that Smith and the others had been found guilty of their crimes and had been executed shortly after the sentence had been handed down. However, because of just how public and messy of a trial it had been, regional militiamen had been hesitant to relieve their compatriots within the city – fearing that the influence of the Continental Army would be transformed into yet another heavily military-occupied and controlled city, except not under British rule. They feared that Boston, famed for its rally call to freedom and defiance, was falling into martial law.

That was being compounded by the rumors of British ships starting to be sighted off the tip of Long Island. Though none had been reported off of the colonial coast of Rhode Island, it would only be a matter of time. He didn't have time at the moment, but knew that he would have to pay a visit to a certain female barkeeper that he knew who ran a tight ship on Martha's Vineyard. Perhaps she would be good for their eyes and ears, not as an official member of the Culper Ring, but just someone who Ben could count on for a closer look at the patrolling British ships.

But first, the Ben problem.

“We need you here for the meeting, Tall-boy,” Caleb said, flicking two fingers at Ben's hair. “Not here,” he moved his fingers towards his friend's heart and poked it with an index finger. “You can apologize later.”

“I know,” his friend quietly answered before reaching out and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks.”

“Come on,” he said, patting Ben's cheek, “we're going to be late as it is.”

Removing his hand, he felt his friend do the same and with a more hurried pace but still soft enough to not alert patrols or the drunken homeless people, they headed towards their destination. At this late hour, the Sackett Apothecary was definitely not open, and as both he and Ben rounded the building, both of them glanced up to see that a single candle was burning at the kitchen window – it meant that Sackett and his wife were still awake and expecting them.

Quietly climbing the stairs to the kitchen entrance, he stepped back and allowed Ben to knock on the door. He could hear the sounds of someone shuffling and then the door was creaked open, reveling Sackett, still dressed as if he were about to go out for the day and conduct whatever business he needed to. The man made a quick gesture for the two of them to enter and just as they slipped in, the door was closed quite quickly behind them.

Sackett gestured for them to go ahead and Caleb followed Ben into the dining room, seeing that Peggy Shippen and Mrs. Sackett were already sitting at the table. Three empty chairs were arrayed around the table, but there was no sign of Natalie. There was, however, a most unusual look on the Shippen girl's face and it was directed at Sackett himself as he frowned.

“I'll go fetch her,” Shippen quietly said, standing up and leaving before Sackett could attempt to leave.

Just before he sat, he remembered to untie the advanced rifle he had wrapped up and tied to his waist in a cloth, placing it on the ground as Ben asked, “How is she?”

There was no need to mention who exactly 'she' was, for there was only one person that Caleb knew Ben would inquire after in such a concerned tone. However, the different, overlapping answers of “well” and “not well” from Mr. and Mrs. Sackett, respectively, caused both him and Ben to frown slightly. Ben didn't get to clarify his question as both Shippen and Natalie arrived, with the latter of the two taking her seat in a brisk manner. Shippen sat with more grace, but it was clear from the way she held herself that she knew of the deceitful matter and was not pleased about it. From Ben, Caleb could see that he wanted to talk to Natalie, to apologize, but held himself back, knowing that this was not the time or place to do so.

“Well,” Natalie began as soon as everyone was seated around the table. “We have seven, no six, active enemy agents in play. What's the plan?”

As cool and calm as she sounded, Caleb could not help but feel an odd chill crawl down his back. No one could be that detached from horrific news of the sort that Natalie had received earlier in the day, could they? He wanted to believe his thoughts, but the history, the behavior of all the people in the future that his counterpart had spoken said otherwise. They were broken as individuals, and shattered as a society in whole, and it made him quite sad and angry at the same time.

“My proposal for this,” Sackett spoke up, “is to make it look like foreign dignitaries have arrived from France and abroad as part of a possible overture to alliances being made between the nations. The Marquis de Lafayette will be the host to the diplomatic party, with party members acting in a similar manner as our good friend, the French Intelligence agent, de Francy, did last year. If we allow the rumors of possible foreign reinforcements to propagate throughout out the region, we should be able to draw the attention of Britannia and make them pause and divert their attention to the matter abroad. It would allow the agents and the army to maneuver and search for these time-manipulation devices.”

“But that would also mean deceiving Congress _and_ our ambassadors abroad,” Ben said with a clear frown upon his face. “You would give false hope to not only them, but also to the Continental Army—to General Washington himself!”

As if already anticipating the protest, Sackett merely reached into his vest's pocket and withdrew a small, folded note that had a simple red wax seal that had already been broken. Unfolding it, Caleb saw Sackett handed it to Ben who leaned to the side to allow him to also read it as the man said, “I have an agent who works in the exchequer's service. I haven't heard from my agent in a while, but last I heard was this letter you're holding: the King is bankrupting England to pay for this war. Given that we've already heard from the Marquis de Lafayette and de Francy about this Napoleon Bonaparte fellow, we can safely assume that the King is putting England in further debt to fight France and Bonaparte.”

While Ben passed the missive to Natalie, Caleb looked up as he saw Sackett pull out yet another folded missive from the other side of his inner pockets within his vest, this time a thicker one, but did not hand it over. “Most of it is drivel that you need not to know or read, but this was delivered to me just before you and your counterpart, Lieutenant Brewster, took Miss Woodhull and I to that safe house. Benjamin Franklin, one of our esteemed ambassadors to France, reports that an English ship, bearing an ambassador, arrived at France, conducted some negotiations that he was not privy to, but left for America and not England. He did, however, get the ambassador's name: Admiral Lord Viscount Edward Waltham Lancaster.”

Silence fell over those at the table until Ben broke that silence, saying, “That's...”

“Yes, it is, Major Tallmadge,” Mrs. Sackett spoke up, the tone and quality of her voice completely different than the one he was used to hearing. Gone was the tired, sometimes raspy quality – replaced by a more refined and genteel sound. Even her accent was different.

“Natalie?” Sackett asked as Caleb realized that out of every person sitting around the table, Peggy Shippen did not look surprised; but as for Natalie, she had the most peculiar expression upon her face. He surmised that the Shippen girl had most likely already been told of the Sackett family's detail before he and Ben had arrived.

“Diplomats make the best spies, don't they, Mr. Sackett?” Natalie asked, folding the first missive back up before placing it on the table. Caleb wouldn't have called the expression she leveled at Sackett cold, but it was uncomfortable to say the least. Adding to that was the fact that she had distinctly called out Sackett by a more formal address without the usual relaxed, affectionate tone he usually heard from her. “Who else accompanied the Viscount?”

“We can only assume they have sailed to New York City, but he was accompanied by a small entourage. That included two women, one who was his wife, Lady Charlotte, and her maid,” Sackett answered, ignoring Natalie's first question.

“Lady Charlotte...my mother died after giving birth to my brother when I was twelve,” Mrs. Sackett said, with a touch of anger in her voice. “But it was due to a preventable accident, and to keep the scandal out of the light, Father ordered me to keep it quiet and to tell people that she had contracted consumption.”

“Wait,” Ben spoke up, glancing back and forth between Sackett and Mrs. Sackett. “Are you saying that the Viscount... his wife and their maid are the three marksmen that Woodhull confessed?”

“The possibility is there,” Sackett said.

“More so with the fact that people have said that my father looked like his ancestors on the Lancaster side of the family,” Natalie spoke up. “Your son, Mrs. Sackett, has the Lancaster chin, jaw, and nose. He looks like his grandfather, doesn't he, Mrs. Sackett?”

“Yes, he does,” Mrs. Sackett said, nodding.

“But this is not a matter about why potentially three assassins have not killed Mr. Franklin or Mr. Adams in France, but how to draw British and Britannian attention to the fact that their plan to engage and distract France from sending aid may not be working as planned, correct?” Natalie asked, returning to the task at hand. Sackett nodded in affirmation. “To do so, you're willing to risk exposing yourself and your wife to scrutiny with the announcement that the long-estranged Lancaster heir is here in Boston, correct?”

“How much do you know of--” Sackett began, frowning.

“Everything,” she said in an icy tone. “As I said earlier, diplomats make the best spies. My father did not let my brother, sister, or I grow up in ignorance, as you have done with your children, Mr. Sackett--”

“Now wait just a minute--”

“I'm not done yet!” she stated in a calm yet forceful manner, seemingly ignoring everyone else at the table. “Everything I know, you can bet that my father knows and _if_ it is true that they are now Britannian agents, the likelihood that Director Andre knows is great. Not only will you be putting your _own family_ at risk with this daft plan of yours, you will be putting the entire city and region around Boston at risk.”

Caleb could not help but nod in agreement to Natalie's words, as he saw Ben also nod. He took a quick glance over to see Shippen looking quite uncomfortable with the proceedings around the table. The silence that fell upon those gathered was palatable, but after a few uncomfortable moments, Natalie shattered that silence with a quiet, less intense, “Unless...”

“Unless?” Mrs. Sackett questioned.

“Unless we truly convince Russia to break her neutrality in this war and have _them_ send troops, ships, and supplies,” she said, her expression turning grim and withdrawn as she briefly looked down at her hands before looking back up. “Historically, Empress Catherine received word of the Declaration of Independence in August of 1776. I do not know if England has asked them yet, but it is more than likely they have, especially with the upheaval that Bonaparte is causing all over Europe. Russia stayed neutral in our war, though the Empress was known to have taken a keen interest in the conflict and held England in contempt for the troubles. Your rumor, Mr. Sackett, may draw the attention of Britannia, but without the forces to help your words, Director Andre will not fall for it. I can imagine that you were planning to use the Marquis de Lafayette and de Francy, along with their ships and soldiers as a disguised attempt to show something, but that disguise is much too thin.”

She knitted her fingers together as she paused for a moment before continuing to say, “Have General Washington send the Marquis and de Francy, along with his ships and soldiers to Rhode Island and let the rumor begin to spread after they arrive. Last year, before he sailed back to France to convince them to ally with us in this war, de Francy told me that he has been in Empress Catherine's court before. He and I will secretly sail under a merchant vessel to Europe as fast as we can.”

“Natalie--” Ben began, looking quite concerned.

Natalie shook her head, “I may be no diplomat, but I understand how Russian politics work. We were ruled by the Tsars for centuries until a revolution overthrew them and installed a different type of government. However, after the Fission War of 2094, monarchical rule returned to favor. I may not be able to convince the Empress, but I can and will convince my mother's ancestor, Grigory Potemkin. He has the favor of the Empress.”

“You cannot negotiate anything without approval from Congress, Natalie,” Sackett said.

“I'm not,” she answered. “I'm invoking future family loyalty, and negotiating on behalf of my birth country's future.”

“What if none of this works?” Ben asked. “This rumor, the risks that come with not only that but also if convincing Russia does not work... there are three potential assassins who can kill anyone within a mile. I apologize Mr. Sackett and Natalie, but I am more of the mind to draw these marksmen in and have marksmen from the 2nd Light kill them before they can kill any of us.”

“Which I agree with,” Natalie said, nodding, “I'd rather not see my mother and father, or Sam's mother suffer at the hands of Director Andre. But, you're also right Ben – it is an enormous risk that we're taking, which is why David will be going with me to Russia. For all we know, the same kind of brainwashing that was done to Abby could have been done to my mother and father, and Sam's mother. They may be convinced by Andre to kill their ancestors, to eliminate the chain of descendants. David is my ancestor.”

“While I may be estranged from my father, I would find some comfort in living until old age claims me with my husband and daughter as well. How are you so confident that David is your ancestor?” Mrs. Sackett asked.

“Elizabeth,” Sackett spoke up before Natalie could answer, placing a hand on his wife's own. “Don't. It's better if we don't know.”

Caleb saw Mrs. Sackett open her mouth once before pressing her lips together in a thin line. He had thought that she was going to protest Sackett's words or decry something of the bitter, ambiguous fate that was in store for the rest of the family, but didn't. It was apparent from Ben's expression that he had thought the same, but when silence answered Sackett's words, it sat there like an uncomfortable, overstaying guest.

“Take Caleb--”

“Whoa, hey, Benny-boy,” Caleb interrupted, shaking his head quite vehemently. “No way I'm going with those guys over the salty sea.” He could not believe that Ben was actually _thinking_ of sending him with Natalie, little David, and the French Intelligence agent just to keep him safe. “Look, Sackett, Carrie, and me – we could have easily, _easily_ been killed back at the safe house. You want to draw them in, you need bait. I'm that bait. They can't find Anna, hell even we can't, so she's safe for now. Abe, he's safe. Townsend, he's in New York, and you can bet that if there is a Robb Townsend here in Boston and on Britannia's side, they've got plans for him and are not going to kill his ancestor. I'll take over whatever Natalie was doing—I can, can I, Natalie?”

To his chagrin, Natalie made a skeptical expression in response to his request before saying, “You may, but some of them will require a more refined touch to cultivate. I'll let you know whom I have already tapped as potential agents.”

“So we are in agreement to the plan?” Sackett asked. “Let the rumor of help coming from Europe to attract the attention of Andre's agents?”

“No,” Ben sharply said before any of them could give their answers. “Mr. Sackett, a word in private, please?”

~~~

There was little mental fortification that could prepare him for what he truly wanted to say to his mentor. Ben was beyond livid that Sackett had the gall to propose such a hugely risky plan that not only affected half of the agents but an entire region of people. In his brief time in learning more about the 2nd Legionnaires, along with how warfare, politics, and social circumstances were in the future, he had come to understand one thing about that future: it had been people, ordinary and those with power, who had lost all hope who had brought immense suffering to those around them. Those future people, those like Sackett's former life, like Washington as a commander, like even himself, a schoolmaster-turned-military officer – ordinary – but given power, had been corrupted by it. Absolute power begot absolute suffering, and in the process, those people did not care one wit about the lives they were taking with them in their downfall to madness.

He did not think Sackett was mad with power, but with the revelation of his previous work for the English, and of the political power that was hinted at with his wife's former status, he saw a rather disquieting change take over his mentor. Yes, the marksmen were a threat, but they had allowed the three to live, to even escape – and there was no doubt that either Director or Major Andre had something up their collective sleeves. Ben needed to know what was that, and there was one agent that he knew that they had to find. They could not invoke Sackett's plan so baldly.

He strode to the other side of the drawing room, near the entrance that connected the house to the store below and waited patiently until Sackett stopped before him. The sounds of chairs creaking in the dining room seemed quite loud until he said in a low tone, “Mr. Sackett, while I may never know of your past history with General Washington, your advice on matters was always appreciated, _but_ you are still an agent under his command. I may not be able to directly order you around, or stop you from carrying out your extremely risky plan, but I can and I will stymie the resources you need to carry out your plan.”

“Major, threats--”

“Are not in any of our best interest,” he said, cutting him off. “I'll let you carry out your plan, I'll let you spread the rumors, but with caveats, Mr. Sackett. Under no circumstances do you jeopardize anything that is happening in the collection of intelligence for Washington. You do not take _any_ of the agents away from their primary duties, Caleb and Natalie included. We are a **military** intelligence unit. We are not diplomatic pawns or spies within a court of intrigue in this chess game of yours that you can order on a whim. You may spin your stories, but the plan will take place outside of Boston. I will not let you risk so many civilian lives just to catch three marksmen. Do you understand?”

The look that his mentor gave him was not what he expected – there was a proud look that reminded him of the same expression that had crossing his father's face moments before he had been killed by Simcoe. “When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child. When I became a man I put away childish things,*” he heard Sackett murmur for a moment.

“Pardon?”

“I do understand, Major,” Sackett said, inclining his head slightly, “and I will defer to your judgment on how we should proceed.”

“Then let us rejoin the others.”

~~~

Caleb glanced over to where the front entrance to the house was for what felt like the twentieth time since Ben had abruptly gotten up and asked for a word with Sackett. He could see their heads bent slightly towards each other, both of them carrying an intense look up their faces, but none could hear a word that they were saying. Suddenly, a small smile of sorts seemed to break out on Sackett's face before a short exchange of words was made and moments later, the two returned to the dining room.

There seemed to be a calmer, much more confident look upon Ben's face as his friend sat back down. While he understood and sympathized with Ben in the fact that Sackett's plan was quite mad, he found that Natalie's plan was a little more palatable to stomach.

“Mr. Sackett,” Ben began, “you will detail a missive to Washington of your plan, but make it vague enough so that if there are any other enemy spies within Morristown, they will see it and bring it back to both the Director and Major Andre. I'll have one of my riders bring it to him with all haste.” Sackett nodded.

Ben continued, “I will add my own missive about sending Lafayette and de Francy up, but only to Rhode Island. The situation on the Sound is already unstable as is – we will have to draw whatever agents both the Director and Major sees fit to send to the coast of Rhode Island. This will also involve utilizing Commander Creighton and the _Ember of Winter_ to ensure that if the two submersibles that Britannia has transported with them do not sink the French ships. Natalie, I need you to find the commander and inform him of the situation. You are also to finish any recruitment before you leave for Russia.”

“Yes, sir,” she answered without any hint of emotional inflection in her voice that gave away what she felt about the situation.

“To ensure that the French ships and the _Winter_ are not ambushed before we draw in British or Britannian forces, I need you, Caleb, to contact Amanda Bailey on Martha's Vineyard. You said she would be a good asset to our eyes and ears in the region.”

Caleb grinned, “I can do that, Benny-boy, but--”

“Caleb!” Ben's admonishment and sharp tone caught him off-guard.

He suddenly felt like a child for a very brief moment as the grin disappeared and he said, “Yeah, I can do that. It would be better if you met her yourself, though, just so she knows who and where her eyes and ears are going to go to.”

“Fine,” his friend answered in a short tone. “We'll leave at dawn. You're also Boston's primary eyes and ears until Natalie gets back from Russia. If either of you can, find this Robb Townsend _before_ Natalie leaves, otherwise, we will have to disguise both you, Natalie, and David.” Caleb gave a sharp nod as he caught Natalie's glance over at him.

“As for getting de Francy, Natalie, and David out,” Ben said, “they will leave Boston Harbor while we draw British and Britannian eyes to Rhode Island. That is where you, Mrs. Sackett will come in.” Sackett's wife merely gave an expectant look to Ben, waiting for him to continue. “We will not reveal you to Boston or to the region until we are sure that Russian soldiers and aid have been secure. However, your business relationship with the supply ships is needed to secure a fast ship bound for Europe. Caleb, help her if we need to invoke the black market and smugglers.”

“I will do what I can, Major Tallmadge,” Mrs. Sackett answered in the familiar tone and accent that Caleb was used to, looking less haughty than she had earlier.

He saw his friend pause for a moment before saying, “Mr. Sackett and Miss Shippen, both of you will also be monitoring the social and political atmosphere in the region. We need to know what the people think and what they expect. With Connecticut rapidly becoming contested territory, even if this alliance with Russia is secured or not, there is the aftermath that we must consider. Suggestions?”

“If I may be so bold, Major Tallmadge,” Shippen quietly spoke up. “Perhaps a fete may be the best course of option, even if an alliance is not secured. After all, that is what Philadelphia did even with territories being contested to the north and south of us. The rich of the city want to wallow in their finery and pretend that the war does not affect them. Why not let them?”

“She's right,” Natalie said, nodding. “Andre, either of them, may send forces to Rhode Island, but the Director always loved getting his hands dirty in the politics of things. He loved to influence and find people to support his own influence. It is how I theorize he managed to sway Philadelphia's elite last year. A grand fete, even without the magnitude of a Russo-American alliance, in the city that first defied the British will attract him. We can then plan to capture whichever Andre shows up.”

“Then I will leave that in your hands for the future, Miss Shippen,” he heard his friend say, but there was a cautious quality to Ben's tone. “Plan for it, but we shall see what circumstances grant us after we draw their attention elsewhere.” Ben looked around the table, meeting everyone's gazes and Caleb could not help but admire this burst of confidence that shone clearly through his friend. “Any questions?”

There were none.

* * *

_Mostly Flat Strip of Land (Setauket)_

 

Abe did his best to ignore the somewhat feral cats that seemed to like to wrap themselves around not only his legs, but also his guests' legs at the moment. It was no falsehood this time that there were mice nesting within his house. Two days ago, Mary had discovered a family of mice in a cupboard that they had seldom used but had found the need to that particular day. Now, she and Thomas were staying at his father's house again while three cats, borrowed from Dejong and a couple of other families, roamed the entire house, searching for other nesting mice.

He had checked upon the progress of the cats this morning and found the 'offerings' left at the entrance. Now though, this late at night, it seemed that the cats were more content on trying to wring an affectionate scratch or two from the people gathered in the room. Out of four of them gathered, it seemed that only one of them had taken the cats to heart – Lieutenant Creighton had been the only one to physically pick up one of the cats, a calico, and sat said cat on his lap while occasionally scratching the top of the calico's head. While there seemed to be an oddly contented look upon the cat's face, Creighton's attention seemed to be solely upon the discussion at hand.

“If we make it an abduction, there would be less suspicion cast upon your father, Woodhull,” Samantha stated.

“But I can't just leave him here, even if he is a staunch Tory,” he protested, rubbing his forehead with his right hand as he felt a slight headache start to form.

“You'll have to,” she insisted. “You and your family's abduction will allow Creighton here to have more leeway in searching for you, after all, he's already covering the coastal towns of southern Connecticut in his search for Anna.”

“Norwalk and Westport are friendly ports. I've made a few contacts there in my search so far, Mr. Woodhull,” Creighton spoke up. “But we might want to smuggle you and your family out sooner than later. Crossing the Sound will be the fastest way to get your family to safety, but it's getting harder and harder to evade privateers on either side and British ships.”

Abe sighed as he glanced over at the fourth and final member of their little cabal tonight, Rogers, who had not deigned to participate in the discussion thus far. “When?” he reluctantly asked. “When do all of you propose this happens?”

“Just before harvest season,” Rogers finally spoke up. “I can have my boys clear out the area in a reasonable amount of time.”

“Harvest season?!” he said, nearly shouting his words, “Christ, I can't do that! I barely made enough last year with our little plot while in the city to support Mary, Thomas _and_ my father! Now you're asking me to sacrifice my family's only source of income?!”

“Back pay is coming, Woodhull,” Samantha said. “You've already been authorized for a secret stipend for all that you've done so far. It's coming. For all of us. We won't let you or your family fall into destitution.”

“The Continental dollar isn't worth as much as it had been these days, Miss Tallmadge,” Creighton said. “It's not going to get any of us far in life if any of us trade in that.”

“British pounds,” she stated, this time with a hard look upon her face. “It's coming. Trust me. Both of you are going to need it if you're to continue your work.”

“But its like you said, Creighton,” he protested, “Norwalk and Westport are Continental-friendly territory. How the hell am I supposed to keep spying for Washington in _friendly_ territory?”

“We're not going to settle you or your family in those towns,” she stated, shaking her head slightly before Creighton could speak up. “Creighton will find you a place outside, somewhat isolated and quiet, where you can maintain your cover and be away from prying eyes. Norwalk and Westport may be friendly towns, but they're rapidly becoming contested areas. That's part of the reason why we also need to get you, Mary, and Thomas out sooner than later.”

Abe clenched his jaw in anger for a moment before heaving a heavy sigh. He looked down at the worn table, shaking his head before looking back up at the three. “All right, how? How does this abduction happen? Do you come in the middle of the night, drape sacks over our heads? Mary already knows that I'm spying for Washington, but she hasn't told my father or anyone else. Can I tell her about this?”

“No,” Samantha stated. “We don't know when exactly its going to happen, but she's more of a liability than you are.”

“We're not going to be savages, if that's what you're worried about, Woodhull,” Rogers said, though Abe could hear unconcern within his tone. “My boys and I will treat your wife and son gently, though you... you can probably use a black eye or two to help your cover.”

Abe gave the man a thin smile that was full of teeth. “Somehow, I highly doubt your treatment of my wife and son will be gentle, and that you will just give me one or two black eyes,” he muttered.

“All right, enough,” Samantha said, drawing both of their attention back to her. “Creighton will be in Connecticut per Hewlett's orders before this happens so he has plausible deniability when he returns to here. He'll also meet us either in Norwalk or Westport – we'll choose the place when the time comes. Rogers will send his men to clear the way a few hours before he and I 'abduct' your family. I will get the three of you across the Sound.”

“But what about my father?” he asked.

“We'll protect him,” she said. “No one will touch him, not if they want to turn Long Island against New York City. Your father's influence is much more far-reaching than you know, Woodhull. It's going to be easier for us to protect him than for us to protect a family.”

“Because you still need information from my turncoat of a descendant, don't you?” he bitterly asked.

Silence answered his question and he saw Samantha duck her head down for a moment before loudly sighing and looking back up. “Look, what is past is past, Woodhull. None of us knew she was already turned. She tried to assassinate and failed. Washington is still alive, and we still have a war to win, so let's focus on that. Agreed?”

“Yeah sure,” he grumbled. “So until we leave Setauket, my hands are tied, aren't they?” He didn't expect an answer, and none was uttered. Only the silence of his compatriots around him gave him the response he sought. “All right,” he said after a few moments. “Please get us out of here.”

* * *

_Year-Round Not-Fun Summer Camp (Morristown)_

 

“It has been a while, hasn't it?” he murmured as he sipped his port that was swirling slightly in the goblet within his hand. “It felt like a lifetime ago that we only had a moment's peace in this war without end. Tell me, Benedict, how are you sons doing?”

“Rather well,” came the unexpected answer from his friend. Curious, Washington placed his port down on the small end table, giving his friend, who sat opposite of him, his full attention. There was no prompting needed by him for he could see that Arnold was brimming with pride at the news he wanted to share. “After you sent me back to Morristown, I received a letter from my sister, detailing the fact that our apothecary had finally made black in the ledgers. There was also word that she was and still is being courted by a man named Shaun Graves. I received another letter just yesterday, and it looks like the debts in my and my family's name are slowly being paid off with the proceeds from the apothecary.”

Washington could not help but smile as he saw the relief that seemed to physically pass over his friend. “A congratulations is in order for you and your family's good turn in fortune.”

“But,” Arnold said, his smile, giddiness, and ecstatic posture in the chair all but disappearing with the word, “that does not mean I have not forgotten or forgiven Congress for continuing to short my pay. They still owe me, George, and yet they seem to have enough to authorize a lot more bounties than ever!”

“We cannot stop them with the amount of men that we have, Benedict,” he cautioned. “You know as well as I do that even with these future-army help, they can disappear at any time--”

“And when will that happen?!” Arnold said, anger clear in the tone of his voice. “When will this madness stop? George, stop blinding yourself to the fear that they cause, especially whenever that pale _woman_ visits! They think of her as an abomination, as a witch--”

“She is not one,” he testily said, his calm turning into anger at the slurs that his friend was throwing at the one commander who, by all counts of the stories and rumors he had heard of, had been the only reason why so many military personnel rebelling against Britannian in the future survived. Now that she was here, in the past, it didn't take an oration to know that that last hope had disappeared for those still stuck in their actual time.

He could see Arnold clench is jaw, and for a long moment they stared at each other. However, that silence was broken when his friend quietly said, “Lee and his cohorts may have been the most vocal in the opposition of your integration with these future-people, but they had a point! Don't jeopardize your command, George. Those squeeze-crabs in Congress will remove you without a second thought if--”

There was a sharp knock on the door to his office that interrupted Arnold before William's voice was heard saying, “Sir, there's an urgent message for you from Major Tallmadge.”

“Enter,” he crisply said, slowly standing up as his still-healing wound tugged in protest at the action, as Arnold also stood, briefly using his cane as a support before walking towards the door. As it opened and William stepped in, bearing a sealed missive, he saw his friend give him a nod of his head. Their conversation had been interrupted by matters that needed his immediate attention, but he knew that Arnold would not let the subject drop. He didn't expect him to, for his friend was as valued for his friendship as he was for the advice that he gave, even if it was in a caustic manner.

“Thank you, William,” he said, taking the letter as the door closed behind Arnold. Opening the letter, he scanned the contents, finding it to be encrypted, but short and incredibly vague. The words were decrypted in his mind's eye, but try as he might he did not understand what his Head of Intelligence was trying to convey. Frowning slightly, he thought about applying a small amount of the reagent, thinking perhaps that there was something else written, but just as he placed the missive down on his desk, an idea struck him like lightning.

Picking the letter back up, he crinkled his eyes slightly as he reread the contents, this time in a manner that he had not been accustomed to for a while – rotating every other word against each other. Thus the contents became clearer, and he realized that it had not been his Head of Intelligence who wrote the missive, but rather Sackett. Still, he knew that Sackett would not have asked the letter to be sent down unless Tallmadge authorized it, and given the reports that he had been receiving from his Head of Intelligence, he would play along with this intriguing gambit of theirs.

“William,” he said, folding up the missive before handing it to his manservant. “Please give this to Laurens and tell him to deliver it to Lieutenant General Washington. Please also find Lafayette and de Francy and tell them to prepare their soldiers and ships to move north. Finally, before you leave, this must also go with Laurens and into the Lieutenant General's hands.”

As his manservant nodded, he turned towards his desk, plucking a clean sheaf of paper off to the side before taking up his quill that had been sitting in the inkwell for a while. Tapping off the excess ink it had drawn up, he quickly scratched out a name before placing the quill back in the inkwell. Blowing on the ink to dry it faster, he hoped that the name would be enough for his counterpart to find out who exactly this person was – from the future, perhaps – and what connection he had with the Arnold family without a certain mole within her command knowing.

[Shaun Graves]

The name both intrigued and worried him, and he was determined to do everything he could to protect his friend and staunchest ally, Benedict Arnold.

* * *

_Simcoe hunting, Strong family style (New Haven)_

 

Anna could not help but smile as she heard Andrew nosily sigh in his attempt to properly tie his cravat. “Argh,” she heard him frustratingly groan, “stupid cravat thing... why the hell does fashion in this day and age have to be so complicated?!”

She glanced over at her husband who was quietly cleaning the mugs that had not been cleaned from last night in this little tavern they had recently purchased and opened on the outskirts of New Haven, near the docks. He gave no sign that he was paying attention to Andrew's complaints. Stopping her circular wiping of a table, she left the damp cloth where it was and approached her descendant, saying, “Here, allow me to help.”

“Thanks, mom,” he gratefully said, though there was a humorous quality to it as she unknotted the mess he had made with the cloth and re-wrapped it around his neck in a proper manner. A few moments later, she was done and stepped back, “There, now you look like a proper colonial... Selah, look, doesn't our great-grandson look handsome?”

“I still don't like this plan,” Selah said in response. “Knowing what I know from how Simcoe treated me two years ago...going into that apothecary shop unarmed--”

“Hey, I'm no spy, not even in the future,” Andrew said, shaking his head slightly, “I was trained to assassinate, to kill without leaving a trace by orders from my superiors, but I know how to defend myself from attackers without armaments. I'd rather leave the spy stuff to Agents Tallmadge and Sackett, but since they're not here and we are, we're stuck. This is the only day of the week that we know he's not going to be at the apothecary shop, and it's our best shot at finding out what exactly he's doing.”

Anna saw her husband's jaw set for a moment before he returned to cleaning the mugs. “Don't worry,” she said, trying to reassure Andrew, “we have faith that you will be able to find out what Simcoe is doing. It might take a few trips, but we all have to start somewhere.”

“That's what my fiancee said to me plenty of times before... we all have to start somewhere to go anywhere in life,” Andrew said, briefly smiling before a bout of sadness seemed to pass over his eyes.

“Fiancee?” she gently asked. “Is she still alive in your era?”

“I don't know,” he shook his head. “She was captured when I was captured. I thought I remembered seeing her in the cells, but it could have been all a dream. I shouldn't have recruited her into the Culpeper Ring. She didn't want to join; she didn't want any part in the rebellion.”

A sudden chill passed over her as his words reminded her of a certain someone who had also been reluctant to join their spy ring, but now was the primary agent for Ben and Washington. “What was her name?” she hesitatingly asked.

“Abigail Woodhull,” he answered with a bracing smile upon his face. “And yes, she is the descendant of 722 himself. I thought that since she was aware of her lineage, she would have jumped at the chance to serve, to join us... I should have never pushed her in that direction.”

“S-she was there,” she said, putting a comforting hand on her descendant's arm. “I distinctly remember Abraham being led down to the gallery of those cells by this Deputy Director Simcoe. I was being held by Major Andre to keep from calling out to warn Abraham, but she was there. Abraham saw her.”

“Then she might be alive,” he said, though the hope that lit up in his eyes was quickly dashed with his next words, “but Simcoe? I know he might have broken us out, but for what purposes, I have no idea. But _working_ with the Culper or Culpeper Ring... that seems very unlike the Agent Jonathan Simcoe that I know of.”

“Agent?” she questioned. “You stated that he was Deputy Director. Abraham told me that he was second-in-command of this MI6 organization.”

“Oh?” Andrew said with a bitter laugh. “That's rich, considering that an internal investigation revealed that he had been cheating on the annual assessment exams at Langley and was placed on probation.”

“So he's not...?”

Andrew shook his head, “Hell no. The person to replace him as Deputy Director of MI6 was Natalia Petrovna Sackett, former Russian Secret Service agent, also known as Natalie Sackett to most people. Incidentally, she only held that position for six months before rebelling with the rest of us and became an adviser of sorts to our Washington. But still, Abby may be alive, and stuck here just like me.” He sighed, scratching the back of his head for a moment before saying, “Don't worry, I'm not going to go running off to find her. She's a fighter, that she is. She knows how to survive. First though, let's find out what this Captain Simcoe is doing in New Haven.”

“Considering the circumstances, that is a lot of optimism you have there, Andrew,” she cautioned. “Are you sure you're all right?”

“Yeah,” he answered, smiling that little knowing smile that she had seen countless of times upon Selah's face. “I will be. Thanks, and I'll be back for dinner. Just don't start bar fights without me, you two!”

With a rather jaunty wave to both of them, Anna could not help but gape at her descendant's whirlwind exit out of the small tavern. It was the quiet thunk of a mug on the bar that caused her to look towards her husband, as he quietly said, “Abigail Woodhull. Why am I not surprised?”

Whether it was just a comment or something to goad her into yet another discussion that would eventually turn into another argument about her closeness to Abraham, she ignored it. Grabbing the cloth that was on the table, she resumed cleaning it, sending a mental prayer to the Lord to grant Andrew Strong success in today's task at hand that would bring them a step closer to finding out what Simcoe was doing and hopefully stop it.

* * *

_The Big Apple (New York City)_

 

The slow, deliberate clap of hands was unsurprising, considering that he had encountered such displays of mocking before from this particular man. However, John Andre humored his counterpart by pausing at the top of the stairs in this run-down, dingy, and dirty husk of a former house that stood at the edge of the burnt and unburnt section of New York City. He had been summoned here in a rather unusual manner, with an urchin of all people passing Philomena a note who then had given it to him.

After that disastrous defeat at Monmouth, even with 5,000 additional advanced soldiers from the future reinforcing them, it seemed that the device that transported people from the future to here was not as accurate and deliberate as they could count on. No one had anticipated the arrival of Lieutenant General Georgia Washington, and certainly thought that the transported Sheridan's Rangers would have taken care of Washington and her cohort.

Then came the even more disaterous defeat at Haddonfield. They _had_ Philadelphia, _had_ the Continental Army at their mercy, _had_ Lee positioned to surrender and end the war, and then... John shook his head slightly to clear the thoughts. He had barely escaped with his life back to New York City. He had spent the better portion of the past months appeasing other British commanders and restructuring what scouting reports and spies he could, all the while monitoring what was happening on the coast of Connecticut. It was British forces harassing privateers and coastal towns, not Britannia. The only quantity of Britannian forces that he knew of, besides those within the city, were the ones amassing at Westpoint. No one knew where the Sheridan Rangers went after their sudden departure from Philadelphia, and it was only now that he finally saw a hide or hair of his counterpart.

“And might I ask why you're here and not in your underground castle?” he said as soon as the claps stopped, carefully watching the man down the length of the hall with two open rooms on both sides of the long hall surrounding him. His counterpart was seemingly lounging on a rickety chair at the room directly at the end of the hall, as if he were king as he, John, were a subject who had just arrived to pay respects.

“It's flooded and destroyed,” his counterpart said, slouching some more while casually placing an arm upon the arm of the chair and leaning his head into his open palm.

“Well,” he said, gesturing to the hall and its surroundings, “this certainly looks a lot... nicer... than walls upon walls of silver.”

“I was thinking that the blood of certain Continental officers, Culper spies, and perhaps one or two British officers would give it a better layer of paint than the soot that covers these walls,” his counterpart answered in a languid tone.

“British officers?” he questioned.

“Well, Major Hewlett, for one,” a familiar voice stated, before John saw Simcoe, not the brutish man of a British officer that he knew of, but the future-Simcoe, step out from the room that was left of where the Director was sitting. “He really does not have a future after this war, so why not accelerate that fate? After all, we're here to blend in with the rest of the riff-raft, hoping to catch some rat numbered and named 723 Townsend in our midst.”

“So this Culper spy, Townsend, is a beggar?”

“Oh yes, he is, at least in this particular case,” Simcoe answered. “Had we let history have its way, he would have been the proud owner of a very well-to-do tavern and inn that serves British officers. Couldn't allow that to happen, so we arrested his father, but right now, we haven't been able to sniff the rat out.”

“Ah,” he answered. Though he remembered the Deputy Director's words about trying to balance British interests with Britannian, he wasn't too sure about the man's current loyalty. While he still held on to the conviction that his future-counterpart was quite mad, it seemed, at least from this standpoint, that perhaps Deputy Director Simcoe had reversed his stance. John was not sure if he could trust him at this juncture.

“Well,” he said, deciding that it was better to play along than to voice dissent and disagreements, “I do hope that both of you will find more appropriate accommodations when winter comes. I heard it gets frighteningly chilly in these parts of the city. However, that still does not ask the question of why you want Major Hewlett's blood on the walls. He's a loyal British officer.”

“Our assassin, former Culpeper agent 722, Abigail Woodhull, failed to kill General Washington. She was only a test subject for the project and because of her failure to follow my absolute commands, has been eliminated. However, I still want _Culper_ agent 722 under my control,” the Director stated, sitting up. “I hear that Hewlett has been sending out search parties for Culper agent Anna Strong, but he is sitting there, not knowing any better about the enemy agent he has under his nose. Since he has no future, why not just kill him and be done with it? Simcoe here would make a better commander of that garrison than that man.”

“He was... is a source of mine for Long Island reports,” John said, holding back the sigh of frustration he wanted to exhale. “Is it not possible to just send him away? Killing an officer in such a fashion as to what you're proposing would cause morale to drop.”

There was an unfriendly gleam in his counterpart's eyes, but there was a very odd look in Simcoe's eyes as well. He didn't know what that look in Simcoe's eyes meant, but he knew a predator's look within his counterpart's eyes when he saw one. Standing his ground, he gave an even look in return. “Prepare a detail that is similar in profile to Captain Simcoe and the men he commands, Major,” his counterpart said after a moment. “We shall let Jonathan here decide Hewlett's fate when the time comes.”

“May I ask why?” he asked. “Why must the Deputy Director have a similar force as his ancestor?”

“All in good time, Major. All in good time,” the Director stated. “Next we meet may be in Setauket, after all, what sleepy little town such as that one is a better place to rebuild what was lost in the flood?”

“Ah,” he answered. “Hiding in plain sight?” The silent nod of affirmation he received in return was all that he needed to know that despite his unease, he needed to take a certain course of action.

Though this was not the particular plan he had hoped to utilize his former maidservant, Culper agent 355 Abigail, it was the only way he could get a secret message out. Not to Culper agent 722, but to Hewlett. Long Island was his, not some mad man's territory to sully and destroy what was left of the honor of the British Army. If the Director and Deputy Director wanted to turn agents in the most unconventional and uncouth manner as they had with Culpeper agent 722, then they could do that elsewhere. He would not be party to such brutality.

“If you would please, allow me a few days to select the men, Director and Deputy Director,” he said in as pleasant of a manner as possible, hoping that the delay would also allow him to seek out and arrange a manner in which he could speak to the Deputy Director without Director Andre knowing or overhearing. “I'll also start requisitioning weapons of a more colonial sort to help with the disguise. In a few weeks, you shall have your unit ready for departure.”

* * *

_Battle of Rhode Island, late summer of 1778 (Oh hey, a new location!)_

 

Scalding chunks of dirt, not from the blue-colored lasers that peppered their position, but from the explosions coming from British cannonade that kept them from moving or returning fire, pelted his and his men's position on this rocky outcropping near North Kingstown. What had started out about two months ago as a mere attempt to raid and distract the foothold that British forces had at Newport from the Boston affairs that were being carried out by Continental intelligence agents, had turned into this long, drawn out skirmish.

While Ben and the 2nd Light-Legions, along with Lafayette's men, and regiments from both Rhode Island's own militia, commanded by Colonel Christopher Greene and Boston regiments by Colonel Rutherford had been skirmishing against British forces for the better part of days out of the week – pausing only when both sides retreated to tend to the wounded and gaining no ground but surging back with vengeance only days later – two weeks after the initial skirmish had started, French ships had been sighted. They were reinforcements, three ships of the line that had managed to break the British blockade in Europe, and were commanded by Comte d'Estaing. Not three weeks after the Comte and his ships show up, did Generals Sullivan and Scott arrive from Springfield, Massachusetts and Saratoga, New York, respectively, helping to bolster the Continental Army. Since the arrival of reinforcements, the skirmishes had become more pitched and only a week-and-a-half ago, did British ships and Britannian forces start appearing in the battles.

With six French ships harassing the batteries at Newport and its surroundings, there was also the _Ember of Winter_ who patrolled beneath the waves, ensuring that the two known Britannian submersibles did not sink the French ships. While the _Winter_ was still being repaired from her skirmish against the two Britannian submersibles at the beginning of spring, she did not contribute to the actual harassment of Newport. Though other Continental commanders were aware of her presence and had tried to order her to, her captain staunchly refused to obey that order and remained only to guard the French ships.

That insubordination was also contributing to the commanders' disagreement on where and how to deploy the forces and successfully assault Newport. Ben had been among the commanders' tent several times in the past two months when they weren't being shot at or locked within a battle that started before dawn and ended well after nightfall. Each time none had sought his advice and merely collected and perused the intelligence that he and the 2nd Light-Legions had gathered leading up to the Newport assaults. He was well aware of his rank and of the wariness that those who had never been exposed to the future-armies regarded him. However, he did not seek to assuage their wariness and only sought to learn about where the next attempted assault and skirmish was to take place, thereby ensuring that his people were properly deployed to intercept and hold British forces so that the main part of these disparate portions of the Continental Army could decimate them.

Scott's disdain for him did not help, especially with the arrival of Britannian forces into the pitched battles. Strangely enough, it was Lafayette who always seemed to loudly voice concerns that he, Ben, had for assaults that involved engaging portions of British forces that were most likely about to be reinforced by Britannian soldiers. Though Ben's voice had been heard, they were dismissed, but when Lafayette voiced those same concerns, they were heard and addressed. Though he had not had time to personally speak to the Frenchman for his gratitude, he hoped that when they next met in the confines of a sticky-hot canvas planning tent, he would be able to properly convey his thanks.

But first, to survive this latest skirmish. His ears were ringing with the near-constant assault of the cannonades from the backside of a tiny garrison that lined the beach front. When it was not the four, 18-pounder cannons that pelted his position, it was the blue lances of Britannian rifles and the buzzing sound of 19th century Gatling guns that kept them from moving well... anywhere. They were stuck, but they were drawing the attention of the garrison force, which would allow Lieutenants Winters, Spiers, and Adams to attempt to take the garrison up from the beach, using recently-taken Patience Island as their launch point.

“Ben!” he barely heard Caleb's shout of his name as he glanced back from pressing his face into the rock he was currently lying upon to keep himself shielded as best as he could from the burning dirt flying overhead. Turning his head slightly, as sweat trickled down and mixed in with the scrapes and small cuts he had received in the past two months, he saw Caleb belly-crawling towards him, moving like a snake with hands and legs, while Caleb's counterpart also moved with him. “I think they're building those laser-Gatlings!”

He took the proffered advanced-spyglass from Brewster as Caleb settled next to him, and peeked up from where he was. Focusing his sight upon the garrison, he flipped through until he reached what the future-people had called 'infrared' setting on the binoculars. He had only learned how to operate one and all of its settings recently, with Corporal Hart patiently explaining what each setting did and how it helped a person utilize the binocular to its maximum potential. Through the thick, choking smoke created by the cannons and advance rifles setting trees and brushes, even sand grass on fire, he saw that indeed, there was an odd sight happening behind the cannonade line.

However, he could not get a further look as the whistle of yet another staggered volley of iron balls, followed by the whine-report of the advanced rifles caused both him and Caleb to duck back down into their relative positions. “No more shields, Caleb?” he shouted, giving the binoculars back to Brewster.

“No, but we can try to see if the horses have anymore power--”

Caleb did not get to finish his sentence, as a sharp, ear-piercing whine filled the air, higher-pitched than what a laser-Gatling or Gatling gun itself produced. Ben's vision was suddenly awash in an overly bright light, blinding him for a moment before a forceful wave of pressure slammed into him and the others, forcing air out of their lungs as they were thrown all over the place, claiming them to the darkness.

~~~

Caleb coughed, heaving as much air as he could take in as he blinked and found himself lying on his back. His ears were ringing quite badly, even more than the shelling they had received from the cannonades. The hazy smoke that floated across his vision brought him back some more, and it was the thumps he felt and dimly heard that drew him back to what had happened. However, as he moved, he found that it was hard to make his body obey his commands and could only move his head slightly. Looking over to his left, he saw his counterpart, lying stomach first on the ground, but she looked to also be stirring.

Thumps continued to make the ground around them shudder, but as his senses slowly came back to him, he realized that there should have been a person in between him and Carrie. Drawing his gaze from his counterpart, all he could see through the haze and his own blurred vision was nothing except for a crumpled heap of a dirty blue-white Continental Army jacket with epaulets denoting the rank of Major.

Ben was missing.

~~~

The slightly cooler, but still sticky and warm air of a late, northeastern summer night filled him as woke up with a start. Coughing until his chest hurt from the exertion, he blinked and found that it was night time and that only the sounds of a crackling fire, crickets, and a snorting horse claimed the noisy air. It was also then that he realized that he was bound hand and foot and had been slung over like a sad sack of meat over a horse. Another bout of coughing fit overtook him, but it had also drawn the attention of his captors as he blearily blinked and looked over towards the source of the fire.

Two people, brigands judging from the pieces of cloth that covered their faces, along with the floppy hats that were pulled lower than normal, were looking at him. Last he remembered, he had been in the midst of fighting British and Britannian soldiers, attempting to take the garrison at North Kingstown. Now, he had no idea where he was, but as he saw the one of the two lean back, he caught the color of red reflected by the firelight – these people were not brigands, they were British soldiers.

“Best keep quiet, Major Tallmadge,” the same soldier who leaned back from the fire stated in a confident tone. “Thanks to those handy, odd grenades Major Andre procured from strange people, no one knows where you are, so even if you scream for help, no one is going to help you.”

“M-Major Andre?” he stuttered, realizing that even with the still warm night, he had been lying prone on the horse long enough to cool and feel the breeze as a chill against his sweat-damp clothes. His jacket was missing.

“Oh yeah, it was easy to get in and snatch you, boy,” the British soldier stated. “The Major's been wanting to meet his Continental counterpart for such a long time, and now... he will. No one's coming for you, boy. Call out for help as much as you like. We don't care. It's just music to our ears.”

Bravado in the face of such danger was something he never trifled with, much less displayed. However, since spending almost all of his waking hour within the reach or advice of the future-people and their actions, their habits, especially their blustering words seemed to have rubbed off and onto him. “Thanks,” he said, moments before he took action. “But I think I'll pass on that meeting.”

Using all of his strength, he lifted both his bound legs and arms as high as they could go in such an awkward position and struck the flank of the horse he was draped upon. The beast whinnied and jerked forward, startled by the action, bolting into the unknown and carrying him to a quick escape.

~~~

“This is Papa-Sierra,” the man who had been conversing with Tallmadge just moments before the horse bolted stated into a tiny, rectangular device that he had pulled out of an inner pocket in his British soldier disguise. “Target is on his way to both of you. Precision shot being initiated by Mike-Alpha-Tango.”

“Copy,” came the crisp answer over the device. “No Sheridan's Rangers sighted. You have a go.” Not a second later, the clear report of a flintlock rifle being discharged at the fleeing horse with its bound rider was heard as the man glanced over at his companion who hadn't even stood up to take the shot.

“Romeo-Tango is ready for intercept,” the device crackled with the sound of another voice coming through it as both captors watched their fleeing captive jerk on the horse before the light fog of a warm summer night enveloped both rider and horse.

“Yankee-Sierra ready to receive target,” the same voice who had spoken of Sheridan's Rangers answered. “Code name for receive will be Sarah Livingston.”

“Romeo-Tango copies and willco. Code name for intercept of target will be Lieutenant William Gamble.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Papa-Sierra, Mike-Alpha-Tango, Romeo-Tango, and Yankee-Sierra are all initials of certain characters already mentioned in previous chapters and are most certainly not friendly to the Continental Army or their allies. In other news, * saying was taken from the Horatio Hornblower TV series episode: Duty (which was probably quoted from another source). Honestly, I see both Sackett and Washington as Admiral Pellew's expy and Ben as an expy of Horatio himself – but only in the context of the TURN series, not in real-life.
> 
> Hark, a historical note: The Battle of Rhode Island historically took place in late August 1778 - I just happened to draw it out to almost over two months by the time we catch up with Ben and Caleb. Also, Russia stayed incredibly neutral during the American Revolution. Catherine had an interest in it, but twice rejected British requests for troops and ships. Her best contribution was the creation of the First League of Armed Neutrality (1780) treaty that pretty much undermined British blockades on American ports, and also allowed a neutral coalition to try to mediate a ceasefire between the colonies and England. Interestingly enough, some historians argue that she pretty much was 'meh' when it came to the American Revolution, considering what else she was doing in the European continent during that time.


	24. We're Fresh Out Of Idiot Balls Here

**Chapter 24: We're Fresh Out Of Idiot Balls Here**

 

_Previously, on TURN: One Hundred and Eighty..._

 

Caleb coughed, heaving as much air as he could take in as he blinked and found himself lying on his back. His ears were ringing quite badly, even more than the shelling they had received from the cannonades. The hazy smoke that floated across his vision brought him back some more, and it was the thumps he felt and dimly heard that drew him back to what had happened. However, as he moved, he found that it was hard to make his body obey his commands and could only move his head slightly. Looking over to his left, he saw his counterpart, lying stomach first on the ground, but she looked to also be stirring.

Thumps continued to make the ground around them shudder, but as his senses slowly came back to him, he realized that there should have been a person in between him and Carrie. Drawing his gaze from his counterpart, all he could see through the haze and his own blurred vision was nothing except for a crumpled heap of a dirty blue-white Continental Army jacket with epaulets denoting the rank of Major.

Ben was missing.

* * *

_And now, the continuation..._

 

Caleb tried to move, to shuffle his body towards the place where Ben had been, but everything around him seemed to move in such a slow manner. Another sudden shudder and tremor rolled through the ground, accompanied by the spray of extremely hot dirt falling all around him and the others, causing him to rock back into himself as the noise of the battle assaulted his ears. He was able to move again, and though the ringing in his ears had lessened, he painfully rolled over and crawled towards Carrie, snatching up Ben's jacket as he saw her shake her head and look a lot more alert than she had moments ago.

“Stun-flash-bang!” he saw her mouth, though her voice sounded muffled.

“Ben's missing!” he shouted back, not sure if she could hear him or not, waving the jacket in his hand slightly.

“Snatched. Can't stop, assault still happening,” she said in a shorthand manner, gesturing slightly to the side as Caleb looked around to see that though members of the 2nd Light-Legions who had accompanied the three of them to this position had also been scattered by whatever strange grenade had been tossed into their midst, they were recovering like he and Carrie had.

As much as he wanted to go right now and search for Ben, he knew that he could not leave at the moment, not when they needed every man and woman to have a chance in taking the garrison. Lieutenants Adams, Winters, and Spiers were depending on them to keep the garrison distracted and provide reinforcements. He could not abandon his post – the reckless actions that he had done before were only successful because he knew that Ben had his back. Now Ben was missing and even without their fearless commander, the discipline of the US Army was greater than those of the Continental Army. He knew he needed to be here to make sure the men of the 2nd Continental Light Dragoons stayed and weathered the assault with their compatriots.

Stuffing Ben's jacket as best as he could into a pouch at his waist, he crawled on his belly back to where his advanced rifle had been flung to the side. Snatching it and the binoculars that Ben had been viewing through up, he sighted through the binoculars. The ground thundered yet again as the whistles of cannonballs flew through the air, only to be shattered by the whiny buzz of the laser-Gatlings. Just as the buzz died, and the rock that many of them had used for shelter against the assault melted some more into slag, he saw a rather dark wave approaching from the northwest. Winters and those accompanying her had launched their attack.

“Jesus Christ!” he heard Carrie's muffled exclamation, “Normandy in Rhode Island! Winters... you may be a descendant of your famous World War Two namesake, but fuck--”

He didn't know what was Normandy or what she referred to, but given her words, and the fact that the air around them had stop showering fire and cannonades, those at the garrison had noticed the incoming assault from the beach. “2nd Light-Legions, ready!” he shouted at the top of his lungs in the brief moment of silence that encompassed the area as he peered through the binoculars to see the garrison attempting to swing the 18-pounders towards the beach, while the laser-Gatlings and 1860's Gatlings were being wheeled and set towards those coming in from the beach.

Not a moment later, even before the whine of several robotic horses they kept in reserve for this particular portion of the assault completed their formation, he shouted, “Charge!”

The men and women of the 2nd Light-Legions scrambled up from cover, just as five black-armored riders and their horses sailed overhead, thundering down towards the wooden walls of the fort. Caleb wasted no time and held down the trigger of his laser rifle as he steadily walked forward, firing at the logs of bound and hammered wood that made up the wall. Others, including Carrie, were doing the same – they had to weaken the wall to allow the five riders to break through the barrier. Marksmen from both the Dragoons and the Legionnaires steadily took down the British and Britannian marksmen on other watchtowers.

Splintering easily under the continuous assault of blue-bolts and catching fire, a portion was set aflame just as the armored riders crashed through, tearing down the wall. The screams of the British and Britannian soldiers filled the air as they were being crushed by the riders, the fort wall, and the collapsing frames of two watchtowers. He instinctively ducked behind the nearest tree he could find as the _ptwot!_ sound of an incoming flintlock being fired towards their general position caused him to momentarily pause. Seconds later, he saw one of the Dragoons marksmen wave to let him know that enemy marksmen had been taken care of. Caleb knew that they were in good hands as he and the others with him ducked back out and immediately charged into the fort through the hole that their compatriots had made.

A hail of blue bolts, musket balls, and even the stray shot of a red bolt from a laser-Gatling that had not been destroyed just yet, flew through the air. Thick smoke from the fires that burned choked in the air. With any flash of a red-coat, Caleb pulled the trigger, but as he, Carrie, and a few others who had not peeled off to either side of the fort he swung his laser rifle to the side as he pulled out Sackett's prototype grenade launcher and jammed the end of it into his rifle's barrel. Waving his hand this way and that in a rather futile attempt to rid the thick smoke around him, he strolled forward as the sounds of people fighting and horses continued to ring in the air.

A gust blowing in from the sea didn't clear out most of the smoke, but it did lighten enough that Caleb caught a glimpse of something troubling. There was a small group of marksmen on the far side of the garrison still in their watchtower, and as they smoke billowed again, they were hidden from view again. Stopping for a moment as friendly forces streamed past him, he pulled out a small, round iron-bound object from a pouch that had a short fuse attached to it. Dumping the sphere into the grenade launcher's opening, he swung the fused rifle-launcher up to his shoulder and angled it towards where he had last seen the watchtower. With both hands bracing the launcher and the rifle, he pulled the trigger.

Jerking back, he saw a rather fiery iron ball flew from the launcher's opening, propelled by packed gunpowder inside of the launcher and lit on fire by the laser rifle. That reaction had also lit the fuse of the grenade as it sailed into the thick smoke. Moments later, a spectacular explosion bloomed, sending fiery splinters flying all over the place as a wash of heat and the force of the explosion propelled him back a couple of steps. The force of the explosion had also parted some of the smoke, and Caleb was extremely satisfied to see that the watchtower had been blown completely apart. Sackett was a genius in his creation of unusual weapons – he would have to heartily thank the man the next time he saw him.

“Jesus, fuck!” he heard Carrie's exclamation as he lowered the fused weapons and saw her running up to him, the barrel of her rifle smoking. He briefly wondered just how fast she was firing her rifle to get that to happen, but she looked unhurt, which came as a relief to him. “A working RPG between 18th and 22nd century weapons! That's genius!”

“A what?” he asked as he grinned at her, taking the gunpowder skin he had slung over his other shoulder and popped the cork out of the top.

“Rocket-propelled grenade--” she began.

“Surrender!” both of them heard the shouts coming from the far side of garrison, barely heard over the shouts of a few still fighting and the crackling of stuff on fire. “The British and Britannians surrender!”

As the word spread, a great cheer went up as Caleb saw the hazy outlines of the Dragoons and Legionnaires step back from the enemy forces they had been fighting against, accepting the mercy and surrender order. Unlike Monmouth, he didn't see the flashes of mottled-colored uniforms within the ranks of the enemy forces – they were all wearing the red jackets of the British Army. However, with helmets knocked off and wigs askew, it was the hairstyles that gave away who was British and who were Britannian within their ranks.

Letting his arms droop as he felt back slaps from soldiers around him, shouts of congratulations and a great 'huzzah' echoing through the garrison. It was only the shouts of “Sir!” behind him that drew both his and Carrie's attention.

Winters pushed past the cheering men and women, beaming, covered in wet sand, and face flushed and splattered with flecks of blood and dirt, but that smile immediately fell as she realized that Ben was not present. “Sir?” she questioned, though over the noise, it was a bit hard to hear. “Where's the Major?”

“Stun-flash-bang, Winters,” Carrie supplied. “Just happened right before you and the others launched your assault. Don't know where he got snatched--”

“Lieutenant Brewster, sir!” a youthful voice shouted across the din, catching the attention of the three and those that surrounded them. The young Continental soldier who pushed through his compatriots was one of the marksmen who had been taking out enemy marksmen. “Sir,” the young soldier said, huffing a bit as he stopped, “General Arnold and a host of reinforcements have been sighted north, near Warwick.”

“Winters,” Caleb said nodding in acknowledgment at the young man's words as he turned back to the officer. “You have command here. Secure the perimeter and get the defenses back up. I'm going to brief the good general on the situation and get a search party organized to look for our fearless commander.”

“Sir, ma'am, what should I tell the men?” Winters questioned.

“Tell them the truth,” Carrie said before he could get a word out. “That Ben's been snatched by British or Britannian forces and that we're going to do everything we can to get him back. We're the 2nd Light-Legions, Winters – we report everything that happens in the region, so if the British or Britannia thinks they can take our commander from us and cripple us, they've got a very big surprise coming.”

“Yes, sir, ma'am,” Winters said, giving them a curt nod.

“Oy you two there,” Caleb shouted, pointing to two of the five Legionnaires lingering near burnt entrance to the garrison who had been the vanguard in their charge. “We're going to need to borrow your horses.”

“Yes, sir,” the two cavalrymen said, deactivating their armor and got off of the horses before bringing the beasts to them.

Both he and Carrie mounted the beasts and swung themselves up. At this higher vantage point, Caleb took a quick look around at the destruction rendered to the garrison: over half of the fortifications were burning, but they were mainly on the land side. The beach side had suffered some damage, but since it was mostly open towards the water because no one anticipated a raid via the beach, only the laser-Gatlings and Gatlings had been turned into melted metal that was still hissing and smoking. The 18-pounders had suffered a little damage, but were still usable. Fortunately, no one had destroyed the powder storage area in the garrison, and since they were just far enough out of reach of the main garrison and fortifications that ran up the bay and just shy of where Prudence Island started, they would have the advantage of using the 18-pounders directly against Newport's northern fortifications.

Kicking the side of his horse, he and Carrie rode off as quickly as they could over the sand and thick sand grass that covered the area until they got to a more manageable lands and set their horses to a faster setting. Caleb mashed a hand on his head and hat as he followed his counterpart, cresting small mounds and hills until they arrived at Arnold's camp just outside of Warwick.

Slowing the beasts down, he took the lead from her and approached at a light trot so as to not startle the guards who were setting up watch. “Lieutenants Caleb and Carrie Brewster of the 2nd Light-Legions,” he stated towards the wary-eyed guards who were staring more at their horses than them.

Fortunately, they didn't have to deal with the guards for long as the sounds of hoof beats on the ground drew their attention to someone approaching. “Major Jefferson,” he said, edges of his lips quirking up in a slight smile as he saw the dark-skinned, wildly colored hair officer approach. “Surprised to see you here.”

His initial impression of the man was that of curiosity – he was extremely surprised that someone of Jefferson's color was able to become an officer of the US Army, and a high ranking one as well. Though he was ambivalent about slavery, his only true exposure to it was through Anna and Selah's slaves that they owned to help out with their estate and tavern. They were wealthy enough to own several. He knew that Abe had two helpers, but those had been gifted by Abe's father to him, so technically Judge Woodhull still owned them. He thought his friends treated them well, but he had heard from others during his whaling days of what exactly they thought about black men and women, and how some of them weren't even fit to be even considered above the status of livestock.

However, when he had mentioned his initial thoughts about Jefferson to Carrie, it was her appalled look that was followed by understanding one that caused him to reconsider what he had said. His thoughts had not changed, but he had learned that slavery was eventually outlawed in the United States and that many had fought for equal rights to be given to not only blacks but others who claimed citizenship in the country. To her, he understood that she considered any person of any skin color to be her equal in all aspects of life. Respect was given was based upon rank and merit within the Armed Forces, and preferential treatment, no matter the circumstances, was considered grounds for court martial. Favoritism and all that he had seen around the Continental camps would never have passed muster or be shown had this First War for Independence been fought in the future.

But they were all stuck here, in the 18th century, and thus perspectives were shifted, and so Caleb understood just how much of an impact and effect Jefferson was having upon the Continental Army by just being here. Everyone around the camp, even the guards who had been warily staring at his and Carrie's horses, turned their heads whenever Jefferson walked. Some due in part to the outfit and the wild hair he wore, but most of it due in part just to the fact that he was a black man with an officer's rank of Major – unheard of by anyone in this day and age. He didn't know if that was a good or bad thing, and a part of him was worried.

He did have a rather soft spot, so to speak, for the man, and it was only due to the fact that Carrie had told him that she had courted him before. Even if their relationship had not worked out, the fact that he had seen glimpses of the two being protective and affectionate with each other after the violent arrival of Lieutenant General Washington and her cohort, gave him comfort that she was cared for on a more intimate level. Not that he had a say in who she courted or screwed with – he didn't want to think about that too much for it just felt odd.

“Washington,” Jefferson said, halting his roan-colored horse, “Sorry... my Washington, sent a part of my detail up with Arnold. A little under two months and all of you are still trying to oust the lobster-backs.”

“So you and Arnold are here to do the heavy-lifting?” Carrie asked in a good-natured tone.

“Pretty much,” Jefferson stated, grinning before turning to the two guards, saying, “I'll take them from here, men.”

Caleb saw the two soldiers hesitate for a moment before nodding, but that hesitation had lingered a little too long upon the orders that were given. However, neither Jefferson or Carrie gave any indication that they were bothered by the delay as Jefferson turned his horse around, and Carrie nudged hers forward to follow him. Seeing that the guards were not going to give either of them anymore grief, Caleb followed them.

“You know, considering what you've told me, Carrie, about this 'little' crush Major Tallmadge has on Arnold, I'm surprised he's not here to give the briefing,” Jefferson said as they made their way through the camp.

Caleb leaned in slightly, but dared not pull out Ben's jacket out of the pouch he had stuffed it into. “He's missing,” he said in a low tone, glancing around to make sure that soldiers around did not hear about it and start spreading wild rumors.

They had taken the garrison, but they had not ousted the British from their rather entrenched foothold in Newport. Though he was aware that the leaders of their units who had been fighting the British and Britannian forces for two months were not bosom buddies, especially with the way Ben privately complained to him about the arguments for the best course of action. However, all of them knew that Ben and the 2nd Light-Legions were dependable for actionable and the most up-to-date intelligence on the enemies. To have rumors spread that Ben had been snatched from right under their noses was already bad for morale within the unit, but would cause panic outside of it. It would essentially tell all other soldiers that it didn't matter what they did to protect their commanders – the enemy could get to them even in the middle of a firefight.

“Someone fused a stun with a flash-bang, Tuomas,” Carrie supplied, leaning in as well. “Took him but left his jacket.”

“Britannia?” Jefferson asked, halting his horse, looking on either side of him as he gave the two of them quizzical looks. “They know the robotic horses are equipped with sniffers.”

“Wait, sniffers?” Caleb asked, confused.

“The horses can smell out certain chemicals and other stuff if they're reprogrammed to do so,” Carrie answered. “It's how we sometimes go through minefields, buried explosives, and the such – reprogram some of the horses to take the lead and guide us through dangerous areas. They can be reprogrammed to be bloodhounds as well.” She returned her attention to Jefferson, saying, “Yeah, that's what I suspect. Someone or some people did a snatch and grab, and its a trap.”

“But we can't leave Ben in Britannian hands if they have him,” Caleb protested.

“We're not going to,” Jefferson stated. “Look, I got an idea, but its going to take some creative lying to Arnold and the others – and the rest of the 2nd Light-Legions, what have they been told?”

“The truth,” Carrie answered. “Ben's missing, but we're going to find him. Britannia thinks they can snatch our commander, but they've got another thing coming.”

Jefferson nodded, “Good. All right, Lieutenant General Washington has already ordered some of us to reprogram our horses. My horse has already been partially reprogrammed to sniff out some raw elements we need to keep powering the Gauss cannons, so I can tweak that some more to add the bloodhound programming into it. Caleb and I will go search for him. Lieutenant Colonel Laurens has been trained to operate the cannons and knows that we need the raw materials. That's my excuse to disappear for a few days. You stay here, Carrie – make up an excuse for your ancestor's disappearance and keep Arnold and the others happy with intel on--”

“Tuomas, I'm going with you guys,” Carrie protested.

“No,” Caleb said, shaking his head as he understood Jefferson's plan, “we'll need you here as the link back. If either of us, especially me, gets into trouble in rescuing Ben, you can pinpoint us and bring the 2nd Light-Legions to us. Ben's valuable. We know that Britannia is not stupid enough to bring down the wrath of the Sheridan's Rangers, so they're not going to try to harm Ben for now. That gives us an advantage in the search. The western half of Connecticut is crawling with Continental soldiers and US Army, so since you guys didn't see any persons absconding with Benny-boy, my guess is that they're headed north until they get get past Springfield, Massachusetts. We can start there.”

“All right,” Carrie grudgingly agreed. “I'll hold the fort and continue to shuttle the intel through. But,” she said, holding up a finger, “first sign of a heart-attack, and I'm bringing the cavalry.”

“I expect you to kick some bloody-back arse and take names when you do so, Lieutenant,” Caleb said, grinning.

* * *

_Somewhere not New Jersey_

 

Whether it was the delirium of fever, or because of the sharp pain that lanced up and down his side, or because of the odd sounds of someone shuffling and moving in a confined space that woke him up, it didn't matter because all he saw was a blurred ceiling when he opened his eyes. Blinking as much as he could for it felt like his eyelids were incredibly heavy with sleep and something that addled his wits, he tried to move but found himself brushing against a coarse fabric. His skin felt prickly and hot, much like the sensation he remembered having when Director Andre had given him whatever poison had made his skin feel incredibly sensitive, but this was a little different. For one, the coarse fabric brushing against his skin didn't hurt as much as he anticipated it to, and secondly, the shuffling of feet against floorboards became louder and seconds later, a cool, wet cloth was placed over his forehead.

Closing his eyes for a moment as he let the fleeting coolness of the wet cloth alleviate his fever, he heard the feet shuffling back before the sounds of something else... something more familiar in noise caused him to open his eyes. This time, he blinked the blurriness out of his eyes in a quicker fashion and turned his head slightly to see a young woman, dressed in a simple, pale blue dress sitting near the foot of the bed he was lying on, with a Pennsylvania rifle resting across her lap.

“I wouldn't move too much,” she stated, “unless you want to rip your stitching.” Frowning as his awareness of his surroundings grew, along with panic and memories of what had happened, he shoved the blankets off of him, and pulled up the scratchy shirt. Stitching meant that a bullet had been shot into him, and he distinctly remembered that he had been shot after he had made the horse he had been slung over run. “I took the bullet and piece of cloth that was stuck with it out,” the woman said.

He dimly heard her as his movements caused him to momentarily black out, but did feel the cloth that was bound against his stomach and a very thick wadding of it pressing against where he had been shot. “T-thank you...” he whispered, opening his eyes again to see that she had not moved from where she was sitting. That was when he noticed that her hands were not resting lightly on the rifle and she was holding it quite tightly.

There was wariness in her eyes, but he tried to ignore it as he took a quick look around – it was a one-room house with a small storage area in the back, and strangely enough, her table was set for two. “Where's your husband?” he asked, wondering if she and her husband had found him and dragged him into their home. He would definitely have to thank her husband later for their rescue of him.

“Out,” she cautiously answered. “If you want to thank me, tell me who you are and how you got that bullet in you in the first place.”

Though his memories were still slightly muddled, especially since he did not remember what had happened after he had fled his captors and somehow ended up here with a bullet in his gut to boot, he still had his wits about him. Even in such pain, he needed to be cautious – he did not know who the woman or her husband were, and he certainly did not know where he was.

“If you didn't know otherwise,” she continued, her grip on the rifle tightening slightly, “there's a war going on. There's soldiers on both sides fighting each other, so which are you?”

That was when he realized that his uniform, its formerly pristine beige and white colors, along with his stockings and boots, were draped over a line near the fireplace. Well, only his vest, trousers, stockings and boots were – with the vest still pinkish in color near the area where he had been shot. The shirt was not even there. His jacket was not there – and aside from the difference in jackets, British and Continental uniforms for officers were same underneath the jackets.

She had undressed him, and while the heat he felt from embarrassment didn't even register with his mind, for his fever was quite high, he shoved all thoughts of impropriety to the side. He needed to establish himself as a trustworthy character, and his hesitation was met with an even more wary look from the woman. “My name,” he began, swallowing to wet his throat as he croaked his answered, “is Benjamin... Benjamin Brewster, and I'm not on any side.”

“Then how did you end up here?” she questioned, giving him a slightly puzzled look.

“Where is here?” he asked.

“You don't know where you are?”

“I got hit in the head pretty hard,” he said, and that was the only truth that he would admit – he could feel a headache starting to become more prominent and concerning the longer he stayed awake. His fever was making him chilly and hot at the same time, but he needed to know where he was – if he was in enemy territory or not.

“Well,” she said, suddenly standing up, alarming him, but he could not find the strength to move as his eyes were riveted towards the rifle in her hands before looking back up at her. “You remember that and you remember your name. Where were you going?”

“I-I was a schoolmaster in Boston,” he lied, hoping that he was somewhere still in either Massachusetts or Rhode Island, knowing that the clothes he had been found in would hopefully not be that unusual for a schoolmaster to wear. “Didn't sign up with either side – it goes against my beliefs. I received an offer to teach at an school in Worcester. Met some trouble along the road. Brigands, though which side they were on, I can't say. The last thing I remember is getting shot, and then my horse bolting. I don't know when I fell off, but I thank you for saving me. I owe you my life.”

He could feel himself getting sleepier by the minute that passed, but he fought to stay awake – he needed to know that he was safe and where he was. Moments later, he saw the woman's expression relax as she let go of the rifle and held the butt of it against the ground, nodding. She believed his words. “You're in the northern parts of Worcester County, sir,” she quietly said.

“Massachusetts?” he questioned, hoping that he managed to keep the surprise from his tone, wondering just how many days and nights had passed since his abduction and just how far the horse he had been tied to had carried him. Newport was a very long ways away and though Springfield was Continental territory, there were many forests far and in between to consider the northern half of Massachusetts contested territory. It would take him days to get back to Boston or Newport.

She nodded, before saying, “My name is Sarah. Sarah Livingston.”

“Pleased to meet you, Sarah,” he said. “And thank you--”

A hurried, loud knock at the door caused him to shut up as the sleepiness he was feeling momentarily lifted with panic settling in. “Sarah, its me, William,” the voice outside stated. “Found a stray horse wandering in the woods with spots of blood on him. Might belong to that man you rescued.”

He saw Sarah glance back at him and he tried to nod gratefully as best as he could for he didn't know what color the horse he had been slung over was. However, he remained cautious, for he was sure that the two British soldiers who had abducted him from the middle of a battlefield were searching for him. It was puzzling, now that he had a moment to think back on it, especially with how on God's good green earth were two British soldiers or possibly more, able to abduct him. Last he remembered was seeing a flash of bright light where he, Caleb, and the 2nd Light-Legions had been positioned, providing distraction to the enemy garrison, before darkness had overtaken him.

Sarah approached the door and opened it a crack, spilling more light into the house. She was a very cautious person, and with good reason, he surmised, as he saw her grip the Pennsylvania rifle with a steady hand and half of her arm braced against the open door, ready to slam it shut if there was something threatening outside. How many times had she had to guard herself within this home while her husband was away? He didn't know and knew that it was an intrusive question to ask.

The profile that she struck as the light from the outside spilled in, illuminating her against the door looked fairly angelic to his eyes, but there was a whisper of caution within the back of his mind that he was perhaps, still delirious from the fever, fall, and wound. However, the way the light of the sun and shadow of the person outside of the house struck her face made her look ever more beautiful and familiar to him, but his muddled mind could not pin it on anything.

“What an odd-looking horse,” he heard her say. “Red eyes?”

“That's what I thought at first, but the horse shows no sign of ill-temperament or illness...”

Ben tuned out the rest of what the man was saying as he realized that the horse that he had been strapped to was no ordinary horse. It was a robotic horse, and aside from those of the 2nd Light-Legions who rode such horses, no other Continental Army entity had them. Lieutenant General Washington and her cohorts were certainly not anywhere near Massachusetts or Rhode Island, so the only other entity who would have possessed such horses were Britannian. That meant that the soldiers whom he had woken up after his abduction to find tending to the campfire for the night were possibly not British – they could have been Britannian soldiers in disguise... but then why did they mention only Major Andre and not Director Andre? He could only surmise that perhaps the soldiers didn't know about a Director Andre, but even that small assumption felt wrong to him.

“I'll take the horse out back and feed it, Lieutenant. You can go in. He's awake for now, but still hurting,” Sarah said, opening the door a little further as a man with hair as light has his own stepped in, also holding a rifle, but this one a regular one and not a Pennsylvania one. Ben caught the woman's glance at him as she placed her rifle next to the door and stepped out, closing the door behind her.

“Lieutenant?” he questioned, very wary now that Sarah was no longer here and that her rifle was beyond his reach.

The man stood at the entrance for a moment longer before placing his rifle next to Sarah's rifle and said, “Lieutenant William Gamble of the Worcester militia at your service, sir. Was out patrolling last night for brigands and soldiers from either side in this damnable war when I found Sarah trying to drag you back to her house. Helped her get you in. You were mumbling something about a horse and escaping. How'd you end up all the way here? Who shot you?”

“Benjamin Brewster,” he said, managing to keep himself awake by shifting slightly to let the pain from his wound lance up and down his side. “I was a schoolmaster in Boston. Got an offer to teach in Worcester and on my way there, encountered brigands. Don't know what side they were on, but they shot me and my horse bolted.”

“Some horse you have there, Mr. Brewster,” Gamble said, whistling in surprise. “Can't believe that you managed to hang on and have your horse carry you all the way up here. You a Quaker?”

Ben nodded in affirmation, hoping that the man was not going to press into the religious lie he had crafted with his story – it was the only way he knew that he could avoid answering questions from any strangers as to why as a schoolmaster, he did not join either side. He had to thank Archibald James for at least informing him of the basic knowledge that Quakers were not prone to inflicting violence upon any persons.

“Well, the Worcester militia is neutral in this war, so we're here to protect any persons who doesn't want to get caught in either Continental or British fire. Once you're healed, please allow me to help get you to Worcester safely. We need all the schoolmasters we can get. Most of them and some of the older boys left to fight on either side, though my commander managed to convince some of them to stay and protect the innocents caught up in this. Now I know you Quakers don't advocate violence, but if you can help convince some of the younger boys to stay out of this war, I can tell you that the town would greatly appreciate it. They may call us cowards, but we've already lost so much to either side raiding us for supplies.”

“T-thank you,” he said, slurring his words slightly as exhaustion over took him. He didn't want to fall back asleep, not while the militiaman was still in the house, but he could feel himself slowly slip back into the darkness. Gamble looked to be a trusting and honest man, but oddly enough, he found himself feeling a little safer if Sarah was around. It was strange and he could not shake the feeling, but as he slipped back into a dreamless sleep, something in the back of his mind told him to be cautious around Lieutenant Gamble.

* * *

_Setauket_

 

It was the pounding of hooves outside that halted Abe's playful chase with his son, around the dining table just after evening meal was finished. Thomas had not even been lifted halfway into Mary's arms when the door suddenly exploded inwards, causing him to shout, Mary to scream, and Thomas to start crying in fright. Abe didn't even get to pick up the paring knife that was nearest to him when Robert Rogers strolled in, the barrel of his pistol still smoking.

“You need to leave now, boy!” Rogers growled.

“What--” Mary began, confused.

“Now?!” he asked, snatching the knife up and brandishing it as both Mary and Thomas shrunk behind him.

“Are yeh deaf?!” Rogers said, still waving the pistol in quite a threatening manner, “Yes, now!”

“Shite,” he said, placing the knife back down as he realized that Rogers was not here just to give him and his family a fright – something had happened, and whatever plan Samantha Tallmadge and him were going to carry out to get them out of Setauket had to be tossed to the side.

“Abraham..” Mary began, clutching at Thomas tightly.

“Come on,” he said, taking his wife by an arm and forcing her to follow him. “They're after us. Not the British, but other unpleasant people that I encountered in New York,” he explained. “I'll tell you more when we get to safety, Mary, but please, trust me on this. We need to leave now.”

“But what about your father?” she asked.

“He's safer than we are,” he stated. “Please, Mary.”

Whether it was the pleading look in his eyes, or the fact that she had accepted what he did for a while now and had not spoken of it after their initial discussion, he didn't know, but she nodded and hefted Thomas up a little further. Taking the lead, he yielded at the entrance to his house when Rogers brushed past, holding up a hand to halt them on the steps as the Ranger looked around.

Gesturing for the three of them to follow, Abe and his family quietly stole their way through the cabbage fields and into the woods. Taking his wife by the hand, he helped her along the dark woods, barely seeing the outline of Rogers ahead of him on this moonless night. Soon, he heard the lapping of small waves upon the shore, and moments later, they emerged from the woods to see that a whaling boat was already perched on the shore.

“In you go,” Rogers commanded, looking around, as Abe also took a quick look before helping his wife and son into the boat. There was no sign of Samantha, and that made him worried. She was supposed to be the one to help them navigate across the Sound and to avoid privateers and British ships.

However, his question was answered not a moment later as they heard the cracks of several small branches and twigs snapping. Ducking further into boat as he caught a glimpse of Rogers brandishing his weapon and pointed it in the direction where the sound had come from, a hoarse whisper called out into the air, “Liberty!”

“Or death,” Rogers answered with a whisper of his own.

What ever code word signal it was, it worked, as Abe heard Rogers holster his pistol. Raising his head, he gave a quick nod towards Mary, indicating it was safe. Returning his attention to where Rogers was, he saw three shadows emerge from a cluster of trees. One of them was Samantha, whose profile he recognized, even without any moonlight shining through the air. The other two, a woman and what looked to be a young boy, followed her.

“What's this?” Rogers asked, gesturing towards the three, “I thought it was—”

“Shut up, Rogers,” Samantha hissed. “And get back to your post. I got this.”

Abe saw the Ranger give one last look at them before shrugging and hurriedly departed. The boat rocked as Mary leaned to the other side to try to steady it while Abe reached out and helped the two additional passengers onto the boat. “Hey, wait...” he began as he took a good look at the dark-skinned woman he was helping in. “You're...”

“Abigail,” the woman answered, settling into the boat before turning to help the young boy into the boat. “Mrs. Strong was my former mistress.”

“Ah,” Abe said, as he saw Samantha shove the aft of the boat into the water before leaping in. “Wait... I thought you were in New York...”

“I was compromised the same as you, Mr. Woodhull,” Abigail said, “except that Major Andre saw fit to keep me alive, even though he stated that others wanted me dead. He sent me to Setauket to warn Major Hewlett of Captain Simcoe's departure for Setauket... then told me to run as soon as I delivered the message.”

“He said that?” he asked, picking up a second pair of oars and moving over to help Samantha row the boat further and further away from the shore. Even with what he had seen in the past year, the story that Abigail spun about her escape from the city sounded a little too far-fetched to him.

“Aye,” the woman said, nodding, “but I couldn't leave my son, Cicero, here. Miss Tallmadge here found us and offered to take us across the Sound.”

“She's telling the truth, Woodhull,” Samanatha stated as they continued to row through the foggy, steamy, late summer night on the Sound. “I stole some of the truth serum we have back at camp and used it on her. She's not lying about what Major Andre did. Should be flushed out of her body in the next six hours, so if you care to hear her opinions on slavery and the like, have at it.”

“Um... no thanks,” he said. “I'll let it be--”

“Hold,” Samantha immediately stated as Abe stopped pulling on the oars at the same time she did. They drifted northwards, but as he glanced back, he saw that the woman's eyes were closed for a moment. However, they snapped open not a minute later, as she stated, “Take the oars in! Switch seats with me, Cicero and Abigail!”

“What?” he began, just as Abigail and Mary voiced the same sentiments.

“I thought we could get to Westport, since Norwalk is burning, but it looks like British ships are not going to let us through,” Samantha said as the boat rocked quite a bit with her scrambling to the aft before pulling out something cube like from the folds of her dress and pressed the sides of it. Due to the darkness, Abe couldn't see what emerged from the cube, but it was something strange and large enough that he saw her attach to the end of the boat. “Are the oars in?” she asked.

He didn't what that thing was, attached to the whaling boat, but he had a few guesses as to what it would do... namely something terrifying. “Uh,” he began, before yanking in the oars he had been holding while Mary had taken the others and placed it into the boat. “Yeah, they are!”

“Hold on to something, and whatever you do, don't fall out,” she said, giving all of them one last look before turning her attention back to the device.

“Mary, put Thomas on the bottom of the boat,” he said, as he braced himself, grabbing both sides of the boat, as he heard the other passengers do the same. A few moments later, a bright speck of light, brighter than he could possibly imagine anything that could illuminate so emerged from the device. It was accompanied by a whine, and then he, along with the others, were jerked forward as the boat suddenly leapt and zoomed across the water.

Bouncing this way and that like a rock skipping across the water, not only did terrifying screams of fright emerge from their lips as they zipped across the inky black water of the Sound at night, an immense pressure bowed into their backs as Abe saw a concentrated look appear on Samantha's face. She looked to be sweating profusely and was much too pale, but he wasn't sure if it was because of the last gasp of summer heat or she was genuinely ill. However, it was the hard look in her eyes that kept him from voicing his concern for her.

Regardless, he couldn't even speak a word, not because he had yelled himself hoarse in fright, but because the wind whipping at them was so great that he could barely hear anything else. All he could see was the fact that she was seemingly guiding the whaleboat across the water with ease, and that the device attached to it was the one causing them to go faster than possible across water. He had to trust her on this matter.

“Where are we headed?” he finally asked after what felt like a long while with the constant pressure against their backs not continuing to ease. He was slowly getting used to just how strange it felt to have the wind whip at him as if it were a storm, but with darkness surrounding them and not a sign or speck of ships and even light from anything burning in the distance, he was curious as to where exactly were they headed, if not to Norwalk or Westport.

“New Haven!” she shouted, with him barely hearing her words. “Safe haven until we can find out what the Brits did to those lower coast towns!”

“What about Creighton?” he asked.

“He'll be fine!” she answered. “His story is still the same, and his cover isn't blown!”

Nodding slightly, he settled in, but as he looked at Samantha and the strange device again, something stranger caught his eyes as he found himself focusing on an odd red speck on the horizon behind him. “What's that?” he asked, pointing towards the speck.

Samantha turned to see where he was pointing, but upon her curse that she let slip, he knew that it was not a good sign. “Hang on, we're going to go into New Haven hot!”

Abe didn't think they could go any faster, but they did. However, the red speck on the horizon did not die, even with their increase in speed. After a few minutes, he turned, eyes tearing up at just how powerful the salty wind was on his face, seeing that they were definitely now approaching land. He could see the blurry candle lights from tavern halls along the coast lighting up what he hoped was New Haven. They were not, however, slowing down.

“Samantha!” he said, turning his head back. “We need to stop!”

“Hang on!” was all she said. “When I say jump, all of you jump!”

“What?!”

“Just do it, Woodhull!” she shouted. “Trust me!”

Abe didn't say another word, knowing that he had to have some faith in her – she had gotten them out thus far, kept her promises, and was doing all she can to lose whatever pursuers were after them. Turning back around, he picked Thomas up from the bottom of the boat and held onto him tightly.

“But my boy... we can't swim,” he barely heard Abigail's plea, and glanced back to see that Samantha had leaned into the device and was angling them towards something. Looking back forward, he saw a small, floating dock that was near the larger, sturdier piers.

“We may not have to,” he said, as he realized just what Samantha was trying to do. Glancing back, he felt the boat shift more towards the floating docks, but the red specks seemed to have gotten larger. He looked back towards the bow, and just as the boat suddenly swung violently to the right, they were all jerked back at the sudden slowing.

“Jump now!” Samantha shouted.

Abe wasted no time and leapt out of the boat, clutching Thomas to him tightly as he landed on the floating wooden dock on unsteady feet. However, with the dock weaving and waving as Mary, Abigail, and Cicero also leapt on it, he found his balance at the last moment, only to hear the whine of the whaleboat start up again. He saw Samantha speed off, angling the boat towards a pier before seeing her yank the device off of the back and dive into the water.

The whale boat splintered in spectacular fashion just before it plowed into the poles of the pier, causing a commotion. Handing Thomas over to Mary, he knelt down and grabbed Samantha's hands, pulling her up from the water and onto the floating docks. “We have to keep moving,” she stated, not even bothering to dry herself off or catch her breath as she immediately stood up and pulled her blocky pistol out from under her water-logged dress. “Get to a tavern or something. Hide.”

“Who's after us?” he asked, following her as Mary and the others fell in behind the two of them. “They certainly can't be British soldiers. Britannian soldiers?”

“Worse,” she curtly stated as they made their way up the steep hill that separated this little floating dock from the more respectable piers. Drawn by the commotion that was the crash of a whaleboat into the docks, a few people emerged from the taverns to take a look at what happened. That gave all six of them ample cover to keep moving away from the center of the city and towards the outskirts

“There,” Samantha said, after a few minutes of silent but fast walking, pointing to a tavern near the outskirts of the city. “Last few candles are still burning, so they're closing soon. We can just go in, pretend that we need a place to stay for the night.”

“What if they don't have room?” he asked.

“We just need a place for tonight. One step at a time, Woodhull,” she said. “The diversion should draw our pursuers towards the docks taverns and central areas.”

“Should,” he said, letting the doubt he felt creep into his tone.

However, she did not answer him and merely knocked at the tavern door before opening it and entering. He glanced back for a moment, trying to reassure his wife with as much of a confident look as he could muster under such circumstances as he followed Samantha in. He heard her say, “Pardon us, but we need... oh...”

He looked forward and found himself stopping just beyond the entrance to the tavern as he saw two people he had not expected to ever see again. “Uh,” he began, but found himself at a complete loss of words as the sounds of Mary, still carrying Thomas, Abigail, and Cicero entering behind him briefly filled the silence.

As soon as the door to the tavern was shut, it was Anna who broke the silence by saying, “Well, this is highly unexpected.”

“Uh, yeah,” he said, still trying to shake himself out of his shock upon seeing Anna still alive, hale, and healthy. Beyond her scrubbing of the tables within the tavern was Selah at the bar, cleaning the mugs used during the day. There was a third man, looking similar to Selah, carrying a crate full of empty wine bottles from behind the bar, who had stopped upon their entrance.

“Agent Strong,” Samantha said, as Abe saw her point her pistol straight at the man who looked similar to Selah. “You look well.”

“Agent Tallmadge,” the man cautiously said, but did not let the crate full of empty bottles go. “You look like shit.”

“What is going on? Abraham, what did you do this time?” Anna demanded as Abe saw her step away from the table, but did not approach the woman with the strange-looking pistol. Selah had a concerned look upon his face and had stopped cleaning the mugs.

“Nothing,” he protested, shrugging. “Samantha?” he cautiously asked, gesturing with one of his hands for Mary to step to the side, away from what he hoped was not a line of fire.

“You were captured by Director Andre, Strong,” Samantha stated, taking a wide step to the left, keeping her aim steady upon the man. “How'd you escape?”

“Simcoe flushed the research facility he was working at,” the man stated. “Anna and I surfaced somewhere outside on the Sound.”

“He did that deliberately,” Samantha challenged. “Forced all captured agents out to implement an assassination plan that almost worked. Your fiancee nearly succeeded in killing General Washington, so tell me Agent Strong, why should I believe that you're not a turncoat?”

“Wait, fiancee?” Abe said, eyes widening not only in horror again upon hearing the confirmed report that Rogers was not lying about his descendant and the attempt on Washington's life, but also at what Samantha had revealed. He would not put it past anyone here that Agent Strong, though he looked similar to Selah, was a descendant of Anna and Selah – and apparently, Abigail Woodhull's betrothed.

“Abby...” the man began, looking quite pale all of a sudden, “Abby tried to kill General Washington?”

“Miss Tallmadge,” Cicero suddenly spoke up, interrupting them as Abe turned to see that the young boy was peering out of the nearest window to the door. “Miss, there's people coming down the road.”

“Shit,” Samantha cursed. “Take cover behind the bar, all of you!” she ordered. “Douse the candles, Strong.”

This time, Abe did not even broke a word of protest as he took Mary and their son by their arms and led them towards where Selah was. Abigail and Cicero followed, and Anna immediately doused the candles nearest to the door. As Abe crouched near the entrance to the bar, feeling the annoyed look of Selah's gaze bearing down upon him, he heard Agent Strong state, “So you're going to trust me to not kill you in the dark, even though you doubt my words and loyalty?”

“I'm going to trust that you want to survive in the next five minutes, Strong,” Samantha said as both Anna and Selah doused the last of the candles, plunging all of them into the darkness. “SAS. Two deployed boats pursuing us. Thought my distraction at the main piers was enough.”

“Eight to twelve operatives then,” Agent Strong muttered. “This is a fucking weird revolutionary war we're fighting, especially with SAS pursing Mr. Culper here. You happen to have a flash bang under that dress, Tallmadge?”

“For you, always.”

Whatever words the two future agents were about the exchange next was drowned out by the sounds of glass shattering and the tavern door blowing inwards. He was not the only one to yelp in fright, but even that was drowned out by the noise of things being hit and bones being cracked, along with the grunts of men and women fighting. Tables were smashed into the floor, against the walls, as all he heard were bodies being slammed around. The _pew-pew_ sound of Samantha's pistol being let loose with two shots briefly filled the air as the blue bolts illuminated the tavern. He dared not peek out as the sounds of fighting continued for another few minutes.

However, what felt like a lifetime of listening to things being smashed or broken, was actually only five minutes of fighting and as abruptly as their pursuers had invaded the tavern, silence fell upon the tavern with the last of the noise being something that had been hanging on a wall falling to the ground. The sounds of a flint being taken to a candle were heard a moment later and then the first candle was lit, giving them a very dimly lit view of what had just happened.

As Selah continued to light the other candles, Abe slowly rose up, waving towards Mary to continue to keep her and their son's heads down, he could not help but gape at the destruction rendered to the tavern. Nearly all of the tables were completely smashed, and not a splinter of wood was left that resembled chairs. There were blood splatters all over the place. Eight bodies clad in dark, baggy clothing that was definitely not of this era were lying at haphazard angles on the floor, but it was the fact that both Samantha and Agent Strong were standing over the bodies that worried him. Neither of the two looked injured by the brief fight, but they were pointing pistol-like weapons at each other.

“Still don't believe me, Tallmadge?” Agent Strong asked.

“You're hand print override access to all weapons is still active,” Samantha stated in an unwavering tone. “That's not convincing me at all.”

“Andrew,” Anna said, hurrying out from behind the bar before any of them could stop her and positioned herself directly in front of her descendant, in the line of fire from both of the agents. “Stop this. Both of you, stop this.”

“Culpeper Agent 722 Abigail Woodhull attempted to assassinate General George Washington,” Samantha stated. “When Mr. Woodhull and I rescued her, she was beyond injured. Broken bones, bruises, internal bleeding, the works. She shouldn't have even been able to move, much less be alive. Yet somehow, she managed to escape from custody and carry out her mission. She was stopped, but Washington was rather merciful towards her and had her transported to a safe house. She was killed at that safe house. Assassinated by other agents of Director Andre--”

“Killed?” he heard Agent Strong gasp and saw the pistol within his hand waver before he let it drop to the ground. “She's dead?”

“So you didn't kill her--” Samantha began, just as Abe thought he heard her voice from far away, stunned as well with the news about what exactly happened to his descendant.

“I would _never_ do such a thing!” the man roared, causing Anna to take a step back in fright as Samantha immediately took her by the shoulder and shoved her behind her.

However, it was the cocking of a hammer from a flintlock from next to Abe that caused a silence to descend upon all of them as he glanced over to see Selah sighting down the rifle in his hands. He could only surmise that the rifle had been hidden somewhere under the bar table. The rifle was not pointed at Agent Strong, but directly at Samantha's head. “I'd suggest that you both step away from my wife,” Selah stated in a cold tone. “Now.”

“Put your rifle away, Mr. Strong,” Samantha said after a moment, lowering her pistol. “I'm not going to shoot your great-whatever grandson or hurt your wife. Neither of them are turned.”

A moment later, Agent Strong took a large step back and that was when Selah returned the hammer on his flintlock rifle back from the striking position. “How are you so sure, Tallmadge?” Agent Strong asked.

“Because I see it in your eyes,” she simply stated. “And I'm sorry about Abby.”

“Who... who killed her?” Abe asked, stepping out from behind the bar, but not approaching the mess. He felt ill just looking at the bodies along with the blood, but he knew that he had seen worse, especially when he had been underground in the city.

“Ben and the others are taking care of that,” Samantha said, stepping around the bodies as Anna finally got a good look at what surrounded her and made her way back to the bar on wobbly feet. “We need to keep the information about New York City and its surroundings flowing to him, so I need to clean up this mess fast and get these bodies to Westport before the British completely burn that town down. Andrew, what are you guys doing here?”

“Simcoe,” Anna answered before Agent Strong could. “He and his men are here in New Haven. We've been trying to find out why, but we haven't seen him or his men in over two months.”

“There's a battle going on in Rhode Island right now,” Samantha said. “Which Simcoe?”

“Captain Simcoe, we think,” Agent Strong said. “And he's is disguise here, along with his men. As far as we know, he's often seen at an apothecary in town, owned by a Hannah Arnold, but also visits the magistrate's office and a nearby schoolhouse under the care of a schoolmaster named George Kelly. He's definitely living life like a normal person, except that he hasn't been seen in the past two months.”

“A far cry from how he treated me when I was arrested two years ago,” Selah supplied.

“Hannah Arnold?” Samantha questioned.

“Something we should know about her?” Anna asked.

“I don't know, but I have a bad feeling about that name and Simcoe's presence,” Samantha muttered. “Agent 355 here said that Captain Simcoe was taking a few men with him and marching upon Setauket to potentially wrest control from Major Hewlett. Which Simcoe is which? Or has Captain Simcoe been sent back down?”

“We can stay here and find out, if Simcoe returns,” Abe suggested. “I can find some clerking work at the magistrate's office and see what Simcoe was doing there.”

“We can discuss it further when I get back from dumping these bodies into the Saugatuck River,” Samantha said, nodding. “For now, compile a report on everything that you have on Simcoe and his activities, encode it and I'll see that it gets delivered directly to Washington, since Rhode Island is a hotbed at the moment. If this Hannah Arnold is who I think she is, then we may have bigger trouble coming our way.”

* * *

_Northern Worcester County_

 

“Sarah! Sarah! Open up! It's William!”

The forceful pounding of fists at the door was what awoke Ben as he snapped his eyes open, nearly groaning quite loudly in agony as his involuntary reaction to roll right out of his cot and grab his non-existent pistol from the non-existent table at the head of the bed caused his wound to remind him that he was injured. Fortunately, he bit back the cry as he saw Sarah get up from her vigil that she had sat while he had been sleeping.

He didn't know what day it was, but it was light out again, and the last thing he remembered was Sarah helping him to the table to eat something and also learning that her husband had been killed by brigands last year during winter. Everything after that was a blur, lost to fever and deliriously strange dreams. He could feel his wound pulsating with his heartbeat, and the bandages around his stomach still stifling, but tight. Sweat pulled at him, soaking his borrowed shirt and hair, and the blankets were much too thick around him, but as soon as he uncovered himself, the chill of the air caused him to shiver uncontrollably.

Sarah did not see any of his afflictions as she hurried to the door, rifle gripped tightly in her left hand. As soon as she opened it, Gamble entered without her permission, but with his entrance, his next words sent more than feverish chills down Ben's spine. “Two British soldiers are searching for someone in the area. The description of the man they're searching for matches Mr. Brewster,” – Gamble pointed at him – “and they're going from house to house.”

The surprised and accusative look that Sarah gave him as she turned around, white-knuckled from curling her fingers around her deceased husband's rifle a little too tightly, was hurtful. However, it was Gamble's next words that surprised him, “I've given them a general description and pointed them north towards the creek, but I expect that they will be back come nightfall.”

“W-Who are you?” Sarah said, her voice cracking as she took one step forward and away from Gamble, with the man closing the door tightly, warily looking at him, but not quite slinging his rifle from his shoulder just yet. “Why are British soldiers after a schoolmaster?”

This time, Ben could not hold back a grunt of exertion as he flung the rest of the covers off of him and swung his legs from the bed as best as he could. Concentrating and trying to stand up, he just about failed as the pain from his wound nearly sent him spiraling back into darkness. However, strong arms caught his own as he blinked back the involuntary tears that had welled up in his eyes from the pain. He glanced over to see Gamble holding him up before slinging one of his arms around his shoulder. Gamble's rifle was resting next to the table.

“I'll take my leave,” he said in as curt of a tone as he could. It was incredibly hard for him to focus and speak his words through the pain, but he forced himself to stay awake. “Please, Mrs. Livingston, thank you for your kindness, but I wish not to involve you or,” – he glanced over at Gamble – “you, Lieutenant, any further in this matter.”

He saw Sarah's lips thin in concern and in anger as she stared at him for a moment before placing her rifle next to the door. Wordlessly and in a quick fashion, she went to the chest that was in the corner of the room and flung it open. Digging out a satchel, she then quickly took several rolls of cloth, along with what was left of his clothes and stuffed it into the satchel. Putting a couple pieces of bread and a small folded cloth of dried meats within the satchel, she brought it over to him, along with his stockings and boots.

“You're right, Mr. Brewster,” she said in a short tone, anger still hovering within her eyes as she took a few steps back and retrieved her rifle. “I don't want to be involved in whatever matter you've found yourself in. Even a Quaker such as yourself can take sides, and from the Lieutenant's words, you must be one of those damn rebels. Why else would British soldiers hunt someone like you?”

“I-I'm not,” he protested, but his words sounded hollow and feeble. “I'm not,” he quietly repeated, but it was too late – Sarah was most likely a Tory, given her accusative words, and had already made up her mind, her own assumptions about him. Nothing that he could say to her would convince her. He glanced over at Gamble, still supporting him, but there was also anger within the man's eyes.

“Leave,” she said, gesturing to the satchel with the barrel of her rifle. “Go now. I won't tell them where you are going, but I don't ever want to see you again.”

“Come on, Mr. Brewster,” Gamble quietly said after a few moments as Ben realized that he had been staring at Sarah, saddened by the fact that he had not even had a chance to properly defend himself even with his cover.

It was only because of the agonizing pain lancing up and down his still-feverish body that he took his time in putting on his stockings and boots. Slinging the satchel over his shoulder, even though it hurt just to have more things press upon the bandages, he slowly made his way out of the house with Gamble assisting him. Once outside, he leaned against the siding of the house while Gamble readjusted his grip on his rifle so that he could help him better.

“The horse,” he whispered, fighting to stay awake. “We need the horse.”

“I mean no offense, Mr. Brewster,” Gamble said, as they half-hobbled, half-hurried towards where Sarah had tied up the robotic horse, “but I don't think you're in a right condition to ride, sir.”

“Can't,” he said, swallowing as he found himself short of breath even after that short of a hobble. “We can't leave it here. Those... soldiers, hunting me,” he continued, wincing as he leaned against the horse who had not even reacted to his presence and continued to stand in front of the small pile of hay and bucket of water, “they're not British... they're...”

He trailed off, and even in his state, he knew that mentioning outside forces that were not of this era would only cause more questions. Gamble was already doing him a great service by assisting him, and he did not want to drag the militiaman into any further trouble. Reaching up, he tried to ignore his body's protests and managed to brush his fingers against the tip of the horse's left ear. He didn't get to lean away in time as the horse collapsed back into the cube shape, falling to the leafy ground, just he too fell onto his hands and knees as he heard Gamble shout in surprise.

As excruciating as it was with the jarring of his wound upon his fall to the ground, he tried to shunt aside the pain as best as possible and picked up the cube, stuffing it into the satchel. Looking up as he slowly picked himself back up, he saw that Gamble had backed away a couple of steps, but had not made the sign of the cross as he had almost expected the man to do. “It's better--” he began.

“If you don't explain,” Gamble mumbled, continuing to stare at both him and where the robotic horse used to be with a white-knuckled grip on his rifle. “Devil's work,” the man muttered. “How could you be a Quaker?”

“Let me go and I will not bother you or Mrs. Livingston anymore,” he carefully stated, hunching over in pain. “You won't ever see me again.”

“I...I can't,” Gamble said after a moment's hesitation, still holding onto his rifle as if it were life or death. “I... I know you're not the Devil, for I have seen the Devil's work with British soldiers. They massacred those poor souls at Ridgefield. You may not be Tory or Whig, but I cannot abide by people even such as yourself being hunted by those bloody-backs.”

“You were in Connecticut last year?” he questioned.

“Aye,” Gamble jerkily nodded. “Saw devilish weapons of blue light up trees and the like. They burned down the entire town.”

“I'm sorry,” he whispered, but cut himself off short of saying that Continental reinforcements could not get to the town fast enough to stop the Sheridan Rangers from razing it.

“So, you might not be the Devil, and I might not know what you are, but right now, I know that I need to help you get away from Sarah's home,” Gamble stated, taking a deep breath, squaring his shoulders and stepping up to sling one of Ben's arms around his shoulders again. “God help my soul,” he heard him mutter.

“Then please,” he said, grateful that the man was not going to shoot him yet, “let us leave.”

* * *

_Later, somewhere in the midst of a thick bed of northeastern forests..._

 

“So what is one added to one?”

“Really?” Caleb asked, giving Jefferson a dubious look. “Every child knows what is one added to one. It's two.”

“Ha!” the man said, grinning, “yes, and no. It is two, but it is also zero!”

“What?” he stated, halting his horse for the moment as he stared at the black man in disbelief. “You sure you don't have heat fever?”

“Nah,” Jefferson said in a careless manner, “its a completely different concept that governs that answer. Binary--”

_Ptwot! Ptwot! Ptwot!_

Caleb's advanced rifle was not even half-way swung from its resting place on his back when the tree nearest to them was pelted by a musket ball, shattering the bark and sending tiny splinters flying. Both he and Jefferson immediately dismounted, their horses nearly drained of stored energy from the near-constant galloping search for Ben all over Massachusetts and Rhode Island for days upon end. It was only this morning, nearing empty in terms of power that the two of them had finally and reluctantly set their horses to walk. He didn't even enough power within his borrowed horse to activate the metallic armor and attempt to charge towards where the fire had come from. Jefferson's horse certainly was not configured for such an attempt – being more akin to bloodhound than cavalry horse-like.

As soon as both horses had folded back into their cubes and were scooped up by them, both he and Jefferson quickly and quietly flitted through the woods, hurrying towards the sounds of a firefight. It was the sounds of flintlock fire, not laser rifles that filled the air, along with the smell of gunpowder smoke that led them to a set of small rolling ridges within the forest.

Caleb pressed himself against the flat, wide roots of a leafy oak tree on the crest of the first ridge as he glanced over to see that Jefferson had done the same, except he was behind a pine. Peeking over the ridge, he saw that pressed upon another ridge was an unknown man, firing into a cluster of thick bushes and trees. However, lying on the slope of ridge next to the man was Ben, and he looked to be injured quite badly, judging from how he was clutching at his stomach and the pain that was etched onto his face.

Two more musket balls flew from the far side of the rolling ridges in this area, both of them not coming from the area where the unknown rifleman was shooting towards. They hit the trees closest to Ben and the unknown man, but Caleb had already tracked one of the bullets' origin and brought his rifle to bear. However it was much too thick for him to tell where exactly the enemy soldiers were. Firing a burst, just as Jefferson let loose a burst of his own towards where the other bullet had come from, he didn't even bother to watch as a small portion of the bushes and trees ignited as he scrambled out and slid down the ridge.

“Ben!” he shouted, hurrying towards the two as he saw the unknown man's eyes widen in fright and surprise. Flattening himself against the ridge next to Ben, who looked a little too pale and was blearily looking up at him, he ducked as two more musket bullets flew out from a different position over the ridge – either the soldiers who had pinned Ben and this unknown rifleman to this ridge had moved or there were more than two enemy soldiers. “Jesus, Benny-boy,” he muttered more to himself than to anyone else as he took a good look at just how injured Ben was – a gut shot that was bleeding through cloth bandages, along with several cuts and gashes that ran across his forehead, arms, hands, and legs. Ben's ally was looking no better, but didn't seemed to be impaired by any grievous injury.

“Caleb!” Jefferson said, appearing on the other side of him, flat on his belly and pressed against the ridge. “Take Ben and go! I'll cover you!” The man then lifted his head slightly and shouted to the unknown rifleman, saying, “You, go with the Lieutenant here!”

“The name's Gamble,” the man stated in a slightly hostile tone, rifle not quite pointed at them or at the enemy soldiers. “Lieutenant Gamble of the Worcester militia. Either you're militia or--”

“Continental Army, son,” he interrupted.

“Continental Army?!” Gamble said, just as they all instinctively ducked again as they were fired upon again. Jefferson answered by popping up and quickly spraying a burst of blue bolts in the general direction where the enemy fire had come from. “Then...” Caleb saw the man's eyes widen and slide towards where Ben was, breathing heavily and eyes still closed. It was then that he realized that whatever cover Ben had told the man who had helped him escape from wherever he had been had been blown.

“Horse,” he heard Ben haggardly whisper, hissing in pain as he curled up slightly. “In... satchel... think that's how... tracking... us.”

“Horse,” Caleb began just as Jefferson popped up again to fire yet another scattering burst. “Oh.” He reached into the ragged-looking satchel and dug around the pieces of cloth in the bag until he felt something cube-like and cool to the touch. Pulling it out, he stared at the cube for a moment before it was plucked out of his hands by Jefferson.

“He's right,” the man stated. “Each robotic horse can be tracked with the right configured device to find electromagnetic waves, but I only know of one person who has the device and she owns a robotic donkey.”

“I don't know what devilry this is, but if I am hearing you correctly, those British soldiers won't leave us alone until that thing is gone?” Gamble asked, just as they all flattened themselves back on the ridge for a moment to avoid being shot at.

“Britannian more likely. Don't know how many are firing at us, but flintlocks are only a distraction. Can't start a forest fire. Too dry and too much things to burn, otherwise, I'd opt to charge those bastards,” Caleb heard Jefferson mutter, briefly looking around before focusing back onto Gamble, nodding. “Yes.”

“Then I guess its as simple as that,” the militia man stated before suddenly lunging over towards where Jefferson was and snatched the cube right out of his hands.

“Hey--” Caleb's futile mad grab at the man's jacket only ended up with him nearly falling face first into the leafy ground as Gamble took off, running faster than he had expected.

“Come on you bastards! Come and see what real Massachusetts arseholes do to you shite sods!” he heard the man scream at the top of his lungs as he became a speck on the horizon. The rustling of bushes and branches on the far side of this little set of hilly ridges caused both of them to bring their rifles to bear.

Caleb scrambled over Ben, trying to be careful not to disturb his friend's prone position as both he and Jefferson peeked up to see that the fleeting glimpses of red and possibly boots flitting in and out of cover were going towards where the mad militiaman had run off. As much as he wanted to fire at the cluster of trees and bushes that were shaking, he held himself back. They didn't know how many British or Britannian soldiers were in hiding, and if there was any indication that not all of them had run off, then Gamble's sacrifice would be for naught.

“Well,” Jefferson said as the rustling and indicators of the soldiers following Gamble's tail faded after a few quite and tense minutes, “that fucking happened.”

By then, Caleb could not wait anymore and swung his rifle to his back as he slid back down the incline and scrambled over to where Ben was still lying. “Shite,” he whispered as he looked at his friend again, wondering where he should start to try to help him. He looked up at Jefferson who had slid over and had pulled out his cubed horse. “We need a cart.”

“Can't,” the man answered, shaking his head before placing the cube down and pressing the center of it to unfold the horse from its housing. “Don't know if they're going to be back – when they're going to be back. We need to leave now. We're going to have to risk him riding with one of us.”

There was an absolute look in Jefferson's eyes, and though Caleb did not like it, the man had a point. With no sign of the soldiers and oddly enough, not even a hint of the Sheridan Rangers, especially since he had been sure that Ben being injured as he was would have at least caused some sympathy within the group to go out and hunt down whoever was hurting Ben, they had no choice in the matter. Making a noise of frustration, he pulled out his borrowed cube and activated the horse.

“I'll take him,” he said, mounting the horse and then leaned over as Jefferson pulled Ben up to a near-standing position before half-walking him to where he was.

Reaching down, he secured his grip on Ben's arms and with Jefferson's help, heaved and lifted his friend up. Wincing as he heard a groan of pain escape Ben's lips, he tried to minimize his movements while trying to seat his friend in front of him. Minutes later, with Jefferson's assistance, Ben was finally secured on the horse, with one of Caleb's arms wrapped protectively and steadily around his friend's chest and the other bracing his side while holding onto the rein. He dared not wrap his arm around Ben's stomach where his gut shot wound was, not wanting to aggravate or press upon it. It felt just like carrying a very heavy sack of flour, especially since his friend was barely awake and was leaning quite heavily against him.

“Come on, you're safe now Tall-boy,” he said, nearly half-whispering his words in worry and relief as he saw Jefferson mount his horse and take the lead to get them out of this former killing area. “Just hold on, Ben. Hold on.”

~~~

“That's quite a run you pulled off there... could have been a five-minute mile had you actually gone a mile.”

The man holding the tiny, metallic cube that was no larger than the palm of his hand huffed and grimly smiled as he slowed to a walk and then abruptly stopped next to the bend of a creek, dropping his empty flintlock rifle onto the leaf-covered ground. Three figures, two dressed in the blood-red jackets and uniform of British soldiers, and a woman dressed in a simple, pale blue dress stepped out from behind a cluster of trees. All were wearing the same kind of grim yet satisfied smiles upon their faces.

“Please do tell the Director next time you see him that I thank him for his help in this endeavor,” the man said, tossing the cube up into the air in a careless manner. “I am now one step closer to infiltration, thanks to the three of you. What's next?”

“We have our mission to carry out in Boston, so I would suggest that you avoid contact with us in the city until we send the signal. When that time comes, you will need to ensure that Major Tallmadge and the Sackett boy, Nathaniel David, survives. The rest are expendable,” the woman in the dress stated, handing over a small, smooth, and cylindrical device that looked to have something on top that could be depressed with enough force.

“So Agent Sackett and her companions are back from their trip to Europe?” he asked, taking the device and pocketing it.

“Not quite, Townsend,” the man answered. “The North Atlantic fleet sent word that their ship has been sighted and is a few days away. Sinking the ship was not an option, due to the unknown cargo they carry. We need to confirm if historical-Russia and America have made an alliance, and if the rumors are true that our future-Russia's secret police, the Third Section, have indeed been transported.”

“You know,” he casually said, “for such a powerful device, it sure has transported a lot of less desirable elements into this war... say for instance, that disaster that Monmouth became with the arrival of Lieutenant General Washington.”

The three standing before him remained silent, giving him stony looks. “If the rumors are true,” he continued, “you'll need to start looking for those 700 Sheridan Rangers, don'tcha? After all, they're the only other force on this earth that can possibly go toe-to-toe against the Third Section, right?”

~~~

Far from the action, but perched upon a small bluff that overlooked the small forest below, a woman dressed in a black jumpsuit with shin-high riding boots, wearing a dark-blue cap with a single brown feather sticking out of the middle of it, made a small noise of affirmation. Lowering the binoculars she had pressed to her eyes, she glanced around for a moment before pocketing the device within one of the many pockets on her jumpsuit. Tugging on the rein of her horse, she silently and swiftly rode back towards the forest that was behind her until she got to a clearing.

Halting it, she held a hand up and waved it in the air. At once, the cascade of many clicks and the whine of laser rifles being powered down and pointed away from a single person who was surrounded by many others wearing the same type of outfit that the woman was, filled the air. As the ones guarding their quarry parted to allow her to view their prisoner, she merely arched an eyebrow at just how pale-looking their prisoner looked. There was another man, similar in features to their prisoner, but did not display the same symptoms as their prisoner, even though the two were related by blood.

“Still resisting even after all that, Benjamin?” she asked in a simple tone. “As this war continues to drag on, you know that he will get into more perilous situations. Your attempts to turn us to the side of the rebels with your resistance will not work.”

“Then why haven't you already done it yet?” the man growled, glaring at her. “Just be done with it, because I'm going to keep doing this until the day I die!”

“Because forced conversions are not the way of the Sheridan Rangers,” she said, giving him a thin smile.

“Bullshit,” the man spat out. “You've got a lot of fucking nerve to say that after what you did to _Father..._ to your own husband!”

“He agreed to it and knew that it was the only way to try to save you from the monster you're becoming, Benjamin,” she stated. “He failed, but I do hope that Andre succeeds where I failed.”

She saw the hatred, anger, and utter rage within her youngest son's eyes die as they slowly widened with realization. “What did you... what did _he_ do? What did Director Andre do to Major Tallmadge?!”

“It wasn't him directly, but rather his agents. You see, Benjamin,” she said, glancing at her gloved hands for a moment before looking back up at her youngest son, “this is the legacy of your infamous namesake. Because of what you perceived as a sacrifice to keep your so-called allies, soldiers, and commander from being killed at Haddonfield, Major Tallmadge became the linchpin for the entire Continental Army. Right now, I can only guess that General Washington and his Culper-Culpeper ring are most likely focused on making sure that General Arnold never becomes a traitor to the Continental Army.”

She brought up her hands and gave him a slow and mocking clap with her hands, “However, it will not be the name of 'General Benedict Arnold' that will be told in history textbooks as a traitor to the United States of America, but rather the name of 'Major Benjamin Tallmadge'.”

* * *

_New Haven_

 

Abe dropped the small satchel of coin onto the counter top, causing Selah to pause his cleaning of a mug and look up at both him and the satchel. “That's all of it,” Abe stated, placing his hands on his hips. “All of what I owed you back when I said I would pay you back.”

He saw the man pick up the satchel, holding it for a moment before placing it back down, pushing it slightly towards him. “I'll not accept whatever bribery money the Continental Army's paid you for your spying, Woodhull.”

“What?” he said, nearly hissing is words, feeling extremely insulted. “You think that this is from whatever Samantha left all of us all those days ago?!” Selah remained silent, giving him a stony look. “I would never, ever accept any sort of compensation from the Continentals or otherwise, even if my farm was failing, which is now the case since I cannot make any income off of it! I do this spy business for Washington because _I want to_. That money on your bar? That's from my clerking duties. Now, I told you that I would pay you back, and now I have. We're even now, and Mary, Thomas, and I will be leaving to find another place to stay tomorrow. You won't have to see us anymore.”

“Did I hear your right, Abraham?” Anna's voice from the back of the tavern floated towards the front as she came out from the food storage area, carrying two bushels of carrots, “you and Mary are leaving tomorrow?” Following in her wake was Andrew Strong, carrying two sacks of potatoes, looking quite nonchalant.

Abe managed to keep the wince off of his face, just as Selah discreetly slid the coin bag off the counter top, hoping that Anna did not hear the first part of his explanation to Selah. “Yes,” he stated, hoping that she would not pester him with too many questions, for not only did he not want to answer but he also had to get going to ensure that he made it on time to his clerking duties at the magistrate's office.

He had only started a little over a week ago, using an alias crafted by both himself and Samantha, but it paid well, and with the amount he was bringing in, he was able to find a small place to rent above the tailor's shop so that he, Mary, and Thomas would have some place to live separately from the Strong family while he tried to save some more to eventually move completely out of New Haven and back into relative anonymity to continue his work for Washington.

It was not Anna who asked, but rather Andrew, saying, “Where will you and the missus be staying?”

“I'll still be clerking, if that's what you're worried about Agent Strong,” he stated. “I haven't had a chance to look for Simcoe's files yet, so don't worry. I'll take care of that.”

“That's not my question, Woodhull,” Andrew said, placing the sacks of potatoes down on a table. “Consider me your handler and trainer for now, Woodhull, until we can get this mess sorted. Since we don't know which Simcoe is here, you and everyone else here are still in relative danger. If Simcoe sees any of you, I need to know where you live are so I can keep you and your family safe.”

“I can keep myself and my family safe, thanks,” he answered, feeling quite annoyed. “It's New Haven, Whig territory and Continental haven.”

“Yes, and the British just burned down Norwalk and half of Westport,” Andrew said, folding his arms over his chest. “Reports are coming in from their west to eastward march. Fairfield is in their line of sight, and Stratford is next. The British Army might hibernate during the winter, but Britannia won't. How soon do you think they'll be at New Haven's doorsteps?”

“With the 2nd Light-Legions in New London, they wouldn't dare attack New Haven,” he said, though he did not feel confidence within those words.

“They're already here, Woodhull,” the agent stated. “Simcoe – it doesn't matter which Simcoe it is at this rate – its the men that he has under his command that are the foothold within New Haven. If you—” the man gestured to the three of them “--all of you want to walk around New Haven and find out exactly what our British or Britannian boy was doing, you need training – you need to learn how to blend in without being seen. I can give you that knowledge, but you, Woodhull, your family is your pressure point. To keep them from being one, I need to be able to keep them safe when you're out there gathering information.”

Abe frowned as he took a step back from the bar and let his arms hang loose for the moment. “What exactly was your role in your 'Culpeper Ring', hmm, Agent Strong?” he asked. “Anna was our signal agent. What exactly was yours, because from what I've seen, you don't need signal agents, and everyone else within your Ring fulfilled all other duties that we are currently doing? You what... trained all of them? Because you don't seem like a person with enough patience to do such a thing.”

“I was an asset under the direct command of Director Andre,” the man stated. “To simply put it, I assassinated people. If you do not want to be killed by any of the Director or Major Andre's assets who did not defect to the American side as I had, I would highly suggest you listen to what I have to say.”

Abe found that he was not the only one to take a couple of steps back as he saw out of the corner of his eyes, Anna do the same, dropping the carrots onto another table as she raised her hands to her face in horror. However, it was the nonchalant movement of Selah picking up another mug and drying it with a cloth that caused him to turn and stare at the man. “How... how are you--?”

“Not surprised?” Selah said, continuing to clean the rest of the mugs as if this were an everyday conversation. “Eyes like those don't appear often on people. I've seen enough of those kinds of eyes during my time in the Continental Army. Tallmadge, Brewster... they have those same exact eyes.”

“But Ben, Caleb... last we saw them--” Anna began.

“Not them,” Selah said, shaking his head slightly. “I'm talking about the future Major Tallmadge, Lieutenant Carrie Brewster, Agent Samantha Tallmadge... those future people.” He glanced over towards Anna, saying, “They all have the same eyes as our descendant, Anna.” The mug he was currently cleaning was thunked down on the counter top with a little more force than necessary, as Abe saw him look up from the mug and give Andrew a leveled look. “Correct me if I'm wrong, Agent Strong, but this is no longer 'our' war for independence. This is now 'your' war and there are no rules of warfare that govern your war, am I correct?”

“You are, unfortunately, Mr. Strong, quite right about that,” the agent answered.

“We're going to be living on Grand Street, right above the tailor's shop,” Abe muttered, realizing what Selah's rather frank and blunt assessment and Andrew's answer to that assessment meant. He looked up, catching the future-agent's eyes, “Simcoe... if he comes back, once he and his men are done with whatever they're doing in New Haven, are not going to give a rat's arse anymore about civilian lives.”

The agent silently nodded in affirmation. Abe took a deep breath and noisily blew it out before asking, “What can you teach me so that if... no, _when_ he returns, I can stop him and his men?”

* * *

_Boston, a few weeks later..._

 

“What will you be wearing to the soiree, Nabby?”

Peggy discreetly glanced up from the new embroidery that she was working on up hearing Elissa ask the question in a strangely polite and delicate tone. While the greater part of the sewing circle's discussion had been about the upcoming soiree celebrating a newly brokered alliance between the Empire of Russia and America, had mostly been about what dignitary or influential persons would be there, this was the first question that had been directed towards young Nabby Adams.

She glanced over to where Lottie was sitting, seeing concern etched into her young charge's eyes. While most of Boston knew that Nabby was the daughter of Ambassador John Adams and that it was he, along with certain elements of the French diplomatic services who had brokered the agreement, she only knew from Lottie that Nabby did not like the publicity that had exploded around her upon that revelation. The poor girl had stopped going to the school near Faneuil Hall over a week ago, preferring to stay at home on the farm just outside of the city, than face inquisitive questions from potential suitors and acquaintances who only knew her father by name.

Today, though, because the Adams family attended First Church on Sundays, was the first time that both her and Lottie had seen her since her sequestration. It had been Lottie, almost begging her friend to attend today's sewing circle, who had convinced her to stay for a few hours. She had also seen her young charge have some words with Elissa before the circle had gathered, though she did not hear the words spoken. However, it seemed that whatever had been said between Lottie and Elissa was strong enough that the young, usually jealous and spiteful woman was tamed and quite polite... even oddly quiet at times while the other women around her discussed the hopeful details of the soiree.

While she marveled at what Lottie had done, it also worried her at the same time. Lottie's father, Nathaniel Sackett, had not told her anything unusual going about with his family since the departure of his descendant, Natalie Sackett, but then again, she didn't expect him to. All they had worked upon while battles were being fought down in Rhode Island was to plan for a possible trap of sorts to stop either Director Andre or the man's agents. That was now being implemented in the form of the soiree, and as adverse to such a plan as she was, especially with the risk of many innocents being caught up in it, it was exactly how Director Andre had ensnared Continental agents. 'A taste of his own medicine' was what Mrs. Sackett had stated, and Peggy could not help but agree with the sentiment.

However, her concern at the moment was Lottie – her charge was displaying boldness that she had never seen before, and she wondered if the young woman had finally discovered what her father did for the Continental Army. After all, the excuse that the Sacketts had given to their daughter for young David to leave with Natalie for Europe all those months ago felt a bit thin to her. She would have to be careful, for if Lottie knew of what her father did, then it would not be a stretch for the sharply inquisitive and observant mind of hers to find out exactly what happened in Philadelphia last December.

“My mother has taken me to the tailors to be fitted for a gown appropriate for this soiree,” Nabby answered.

“Well, if I may suggest that if you need a hairdresser, I know of one who will be able to arrange your lovely hair into the latest European high-roll fashion,” Elissa said.

“Thank you,” Nabby answered, “I shall consider the offer.”

It was the slow growing noise of cheers and the like that interrupted their circle as all of them curiously rose up from their seats, placing needle, thread and embroideries down on their chairs. “What is happening outside?” one of the other women asked as they all looked at each other before hurrying to the entrance of the schoolhouse.

Upon stepping out, Peggy saw that it was not something that she needed to be worried about as exclamations of surprise, along with squeals of joy from the other women gathered around her. Standing upon the steps of the schoolhouse, they watched, along with many others drawn out of their houses by the commotion, as a small entourage of Continental Army soldiers and their commanders marched through the streets. She didn't know where they were going, but it looked like someone had started an impromptu victory parade for the Continental soldiers.

At the head of the small entourage was General Washington, but surprisingly, Peggy saw General Arnold riding beside him. There were a couple of other officers trailing behind the two men, whom she recognized, but she dared not give any indication that she knew of General Washington, and especially not Benedict. Her correspondences to him were still secret, still something she cherished as a normality in her upended life. However, her attempts to slip back further into the crowds and nearer to the entrance to the schoolhouse to make her self anonymous within the cheering crowd came much too late.

As the entourage passed, she saw Benedict lean over towards Washington for a moment before both halted their horses. Her heart was beating quite fast in both thrill and fear as she saw Benedict dismount and approach, with the crowds parting in awe and surprise until he stopped before her. She could only offer up a smile as she found her eyes blurring with tears. They were of both joy and sadness – what she had done in Philadelphia was something she could never forget, yet God seemed to have mercy upon her as well as General Washington to allow her this one joy in her life. She did not feel worthy of it, as he lifted her hand up and gently press his lips to the back of it.

“Miss Shippen,” Benedict said after a moment, smiling at her.

“General Arnold,” she managed to say without quivering as she hastily blinked the tears away. “Congratulations on your victory at Newport.”

“Thank you,” he answered. “I do hope to see you at the soiree in a few days time.”

“I shall be there,” she said, suddenly feeling quite shy, as if she were fourteen again and just starting to learn about the world of intimacy.

“Until then, Miss Shippen,” he said, letting go of her hand and returned to his horse.

Peggy neither raised her hand in farewell nor did anything else of the sort except to watch her beloved continued down the street, riding high and proud as he deserved to. Her final secret was now out, but oddly enough, instead of being scared, she felt relieved – perhaps if indeed Benedict was ardently in love with her, then they would be married soon, and then, she would be finally free of her prison called espionage.

~~~

“How did you really come to know General Arnold, Miss Margaret?”

“Pardon?” Peggy asked as she and Lottie walked along the side of the busy streets on their way back home. The whirlwind that had descended upon her after Benedict's appearance and personal greeting was something she wanted to forget. There had been so many inquisitive and intrusive questions that she had all but run out of the circle until she could run no more. It had been Lottie who had finally found her in an alleyway and suggested that they return home.

“Was it at the same Philadelphia soiree that you just happened to attend and meet Major Tallmadge?” she asked.

Peggy stopped and glanced over at her young charge, but instead of seeing the usual cheerful if curious expression she usually wore, there was a storm cloud that seemed to be brewing in her eyes, causing her to look a lot like Mrs. Sackett when she was angry. “Might I ask what has twisted your petticoats so?” she carefully asked.

“Not here,” Lottie said, gently pulling her arm so that she followed her into an empty alleyway. “I've been thinking about what has happened since that 'cousin' of mine abruptly arrived and then left,” she began after a moment. “I wondered why my father would let little David go with her when I didn't even know that we had cousins living in Virginia. Then it struck me that perhaps Natalie was one of my parents' acquaintances from our time in London, after all, they've always seemed to have unexpected guests appear in the house well after the usual calling hours when we lived there. I don't know what my parents did, but I know enough to keep it a secret that heavily encoding ledgers and the like are not normal for even merchants such as my parents.”

Lottie tapped her feet on the ground for a moment before continuing to say, “But then why would Natalie, if that is her real name, take my brother with her, unless of course, my parents were in a spot of trouble and someone threatened mine and my brother's life. I was hurt and puzzled as to why I did not leave with my brother, but now, it makes sense. Your acquaintance with General Arnold most likely enabled my father to request a protective detail in exchange for continuing to do whatever he is doing for the Continental Army. Hence why you are here as my governess. If whoever threatened my or my brother's life hurt either of us, my father would know through your correspondence to either Major Tallmadge or General Arnold. I can only assume that even with what was stated at the courthouse during Major Smith's trial that Major Tallmadge was sent to Boston under separate orders from possibly my father, because I took a peek in Major Tallmadge's journals when we had been searching for David this past winter. His encoding methodology is nearly the same or greater in complexity as what my father does with his journals.”

The young woman sighed, shaking her head slightly. “Whatever my father is doing for the Continental Army is important, important enough that I have never said a word of this to anyone else except for you now, because I need your help, Miss Margaret. I need whatever influence or acquaintances you have because I don't think someone is trying to kidnap David or I anymore – I think, because of this new alliance that we have with Russia, someone might be trying to make it fail by possibly doing something horrid to Nabby and her family... to coerce Ambassador Adams into doing something terrible.”

Peggy stared at her young charge for a few long and silent moments, her thoughts reeling. Though not everything that Lottie had stated was accurate, it was close enough that she had figuratively hit upon the entire truth, and that frightened her. “H-how?” she hesitatingly asked.

“I will not say, not until you answer my question about General Arnold and tell me if you can help me,” Lottie stated. “Please.”

“Let's go home,” she said, looking back out into the streets, suddenly not wanting to linger outside. “If what you say is true, then I will help you,” she continued, guiding her charge back into the flow of the crowds. “But, I met General Arnold when I was fourteen at one of my father's soiree. He was kind and nice, and it was only recently that I began to correspond with him once again. What I said about meeting Major Tallmadge is also the truth, Lottie. He and I met last year at the celebratory soiree in Philadelphia, and we did not get along. So please, while you might've held assumptions that everything that I've told you is a lie, please do not. The only person who can provide you the help you need to keep Nabby and her family safe is your father.”

“How, Miss Margaret?” she asked.

Peggy remained silent as they turned the next couple of corners until they finally arrived at the two story house-shop. Climbing the stairs to enter through the kitchen entrance, she knocked and the door opened, revealing Mrs. Sackett who was in the midst of making the evening meal. “Mrs. Sackett,” she began without preamble or the usual greeting she gave, “is Mr. Sackett present at this moment?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Sackett answered, raising an eyebrow in curiosity.

“Then please, I think both of you may need to hear this.”

“Lottie,” Mrs. Sackett briskly said as they entered and shut the door behind them, “please go fetch David from the dining room and get cleaned up for supper.”

“She needs to stay, Mrs. Sackett,” she immediately stated, placing a hand slightly back to keep Lottie from moving. The narrowed look that her employer gave her was uncomfortable, but Mrs. Sackett did not say another word except to gesture for the two of them to follow her.

Upon entering the dining room, Peggy saw that Mr. Sackett was sitting at the head of the table, seemingly engrossed in reading the latest gazette while making notes in a small journal, while little David was sitting next to Natalie, who had seemingly returned only a day ago but whom she knew had actually returned a few weeks prior. Natalie had been in and out of the Sackett's house for those few weeks, engaged in some business of sorts, but was now tutoring David on his numerics.

“Nathaniel,” Mrs. Sackett said, drawing all of their attention from the table, though Peggy saw Mr. Sackett owlishly blink before a puzzled look appeared on his face.

“Your daughter knows, Mr. Sackett,” Peggy stated, taking a step to the side. “As God is my witness, I did not tell her, but she knows. I believe that she has seen the danger that we've all been hoping would not appear before or during the fete.”

“Lottie,” Mr. Sackett said, withdrawing his spectacles from their perch upon his nose for a moment as he rubbed a piece of cloth over the lenses before putting it back on. “Please explain.”

“I...” the young woman began, “While Lizzie and I were playing the other day after school with Nabby, I saw the shadows of two men holding the strangest looking rifles on the rooftops above the butcher's shop on High Street. I couldn't see their faces and they were wearing all black, but their rifles were shaped like the usual flintlock or possibly a Pennsylvania one, except longer. From what I saw there was paint on the rifles that seemed to not reflect any light and they had some odd spyglasses perched on top. They weren't pointing those rifles at Nabby, but after we were done with her games, they did follow her until some local watchmen on the west side offered to escort her home.”

“Is this the first time you've seen these men?” Mr. Sackett asked, expression betraying nothing of what he felt.

“No... no, sir,” Lottie nervously answered. “I saw them two other times, once following Mrs. Adams and her children while Nabby stayed behind to play with Lizzie and I after school about two-and-a-half weeks ago, and the other just before Sunday service started this morning.”

“Did they see you?” the question was said in a calm, almost cold manner – quite a change from the usual demeanor that Peggy knew that Mr. Sackett possessed.

“Father...”

“Did they see you?” he repeated, this time with a slight hint of anger in his tone.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I used what you taught me, father. They didn't see me. I'm sure of it.”

“You did _what_ , Nathaniel?!” Mrs. Sackett said, nearly shouting her horrified words. “I thought we agreed not to--”

“Then we have a problem,” Natalie immediately cut in, as Peggy heard the whine of something start up and saw her pull out a blocky, matte-black L-shaped object that looked vaguely like a pistol of sorts, from where she could only assume had been hiding somewhere under the brown working dress she was wearing. “Contact the others, Nathaniel,” she said, giving a brief look-over on her weapon. “I'm going to see if a solution can be found by tomorrow morning.”

The woman from the future then pinned Mr. Sackett with a harsh glare before saying, “I warned you. You shouldn't have kept your daughter in the dark about what you do, because like it or not, she's gotten herself involved. You'd best start training her, properly, or else she might just get herself killed if she ever tries this again.”

* * *

_The next morning..._

 

“Look at the Tall-boy. He lives!” Caleb's cheerful greeting from where his friend sat at the table on the first floor of the Green Dragon Inn, brought a smile upon his face as he stepped down from the last of the stairs from the second floor. Grateful that that particular ordeal was over, Ben made his way over to where Caleb was, ready for the next challenge, which was to ease himself into the chair.

“You sure you should be up and about, Ben?” Caleb asked, as he involuntarily winced when a short, quick lance of pain shot up and down his body.

“I've been cooped up in our room for the last few days,” he groused, hoping that he managed to keep the pain he felt from being colored in his tone, “reading reports and the like of the rather interesting battle that finally allowed us to take Newport... and what our little birds have brought back to us about the region. At least please let me have some peace of mind here.”

“Little birds?” Caleb asked, giving him a doubtful look, “more like you've spent a little too much time discussing certain details with Mr. Sackett... enough that you now sound like him.”

“Oh dearie!” the concerned tone of Mrs. Freeman, the wife of the owner of the tavern-inn said as Ben looked over to see her approach with a pitcher in hand. “You shouldn't be moving yet! The doctors--”

“Have said that I am able to move, now that the stitching is sealed, there is no sign of infection or rot, and the wound is well on its way to healing, madam,” he finished for her as she clucked and hovered over him and their table, pouring generous amounts of ale into the mugs. “Thank you for your concern, but do you have anything from breakfast?” he asked, half-hoping that it was not too late to possibly have something more solid to eat other than watery oatmeal, which while he had been grateful to eat, he was becoming a tad tired of it.

“For you, dearie, anything,” she said, giving him a sunny smile before whisking away towards the kitchens.

“Don't,” he immediately said, turning his attention back to Caleb and holding up his right index finger, when Mrs. Freeman was out of earshot.

“Aw,” his friend said, grinning, “I'm getting too predictable for you, ain't that right?”

“Yes,” he said, though there was no testiness or malice within his tone. Softening it with a smile, he then said, “But thank you, Caleb. Truly. If you hadn't been there--”

“Ben,” Caleb said, the usual cheerful, jesting expression disappearing in an instant and was instead, replaced with a completely serious expression, “you don't have to thank me, ever. I'm never going to leave you in any enemy hands. Those US Army guys, they told me they have an expression: leave no man behind. Well, we may not be them, but I sure as hell will never leave you in the hands of those British or Britannian bastards. Ever.”

He silently nodded, accepting the sentiment. The comfortable, affectionate silence that hung between them was not long for a few minutes later, Mrs. Freeman came back with two steaming hot and fresh breakfast plates piled with eggs, oatmeal, and even some blood sausages, and set it down before both of them with a flourish. As soon as she bustled off to tend to her other customers, he tucked in, grateful to have some warm, familiar, and comforting food in his stomach.

“Besides,” Caleb said in between bites and swigs of ale, “you really should thank Jefferson's horse.”

“Jefferson's horse?” he asked, nearly spitting out the sip of ale that he had taken.

“Yeah,” his friend answered, grinning, “he's got a bloodhound type of configuration within the horse. It was mainly used to search for raw resources to power their cannons and the like, but he did something with it and stuffed your jacket in front of its nose to sniff your scent out.”

It was more vanity and the fact that the jacket was the most expensive part of his uniform that constantly needed to be repaired, kept well, and clean, that Ben glanced towards the epaulets and buttons. Looking back at Caleb, he said, “I suppose I should be thankful that it wasn't actual bloodhounds sniffing and slobbering over it.”

Caleb made a face that Ben didn't really like as he said, “Well... the horse almost chewed it. Jefferson said something about some fiber analysis that would help with quick location or something like that... I don't understand it all, but I took the jacket away before the horse could chew a hole into it.”

“Ah,” he said, taking another sip of his ale before shoveling a portion of the eggs into his mouth. Chewing and swallowing, he then said, “well... thank you Jefferson's horse.”

“So now that you're up and about, you think you can stay steady on your feet and join me in a meeting today?” Caleb asked after a few minutes of silent eating. “Because I'm definitely ready to hand your job back to you, Ben. All this reading through reports is quite frankly, boring. I'd rather go do stuff than stay around, reading scouting reports.”

“Is it about the Russian alliance or the fete that's happening soon for our new allies?” he asked.

While he had been bedridden and recovering from his gunshot wound, Caleb, Sackett, and the others had been taking over the duties of the ring and of running Continental Intelligence. Ben had learned from perusing the reports that Newport had been taken only a few days after he had been abducted from the battlefield, with the reinforcements provided by General Arnold and Lieutenant Colonel Laurens commanding the Gauss cannons being the backbone of the main operation. The British and Britannian forces had been driven back to Long Island, but in their wake, British ships had burned down Norwalk and many of the coastal cities along the Connecticut coast.

Racing down from their fresh victory at Newport, French ships had managed to stop the British ships from completely burning Westport, but in the end, had retreated up towards Stratford and New Haven. Those ships were currently patrolling from around that area and all the way to Newport. The two Britannian submersibles had not been sighted along the Connecticut coast, but neither had the _Ember of Winter_ reported their presence anywhere near Newport, Cape Cod, or Boston Harbor. However, adding to the survey of the sea was a small squadron of five Russian ships, and surprisingly, a Russian submersible that had been transported from the future when strange things started to happen in Europe last year.

It had been purely through the efforts of de Francy, along with fortuitous timing by Congress-appointed Ambassador John Adams while in Empress Catherine's court that the effort to convince Russia to side with America had been successful. Leading the first batch of Russian soldiers to fight on American soil was Grigory Potemkin, whom he remembered Natalie stating as a favored consort of sorts to the Russian Empress. However, in all the reports that he read, there was no mention of what Natalie had done during her time in Europe.

While he had had visitors from time to time during his confinement within the Green Dragon Inn's rooms, they were mostly limited to Caleb and Sackett. He had not seen Natalie since her departure over three months ago, and though his heart ached to see her again, he knew just how dangerous it was for her to not only visit him while he had been invalidated, but also the perceptions that her visit would create. She had a cover here in Boston, and after what had happened with Sarah Livingston, he understood just how easily broken any cover could be. She was most definitely more well versed in this espionage business than he was, and while he was frustrated that they could not have a normal relationship even if they were from two different eras, he vowed to keep her and her cover safe – thus he did not ask after her, even when Sackett was present and he knew that she had returned from her recruitment mission.

“Eh, not quite, Tall-boy,” Caleb said, tapping the speared blood sausage on his plate for a moment. “Got word last night that ol' Georgie finally arrived here, so Natalie called a meeting of the minds. Said that there was something else, something that only we, your temporary Heads of Intelligence, needed to know.”

“General Washington is here?” he asked, remembering to lower his voice to a whisper so that no one else but Caleb could hear him. “I thought he was leading a campaign against the northern New Jersey and eastern Pennsylvania British encampments before they're settling for winter.”

“All a part of the fete plan that you had Sackett and that Shippen girl work out before you got snatched, Ben,” Caleb said, patting him on the arm. “I think Lieutenant General Washington's running circles around those redcoats in Pennsylvania and New Jersey. Old Georgie being here is also part of whatever Congress says he has to do, at least that's what Sackett's told me. Looks like they're not going to wait for the Russians to make their way down to Philadelphia, since there's also a few Congressmen attending this fete. But we can discuss that later with Sackett, since he's worried about security and all of those protection details. So you think you're up for a meeting?”

“Well, if Natalie is calling it, I trust that its extremely important, so yeah,” he said, nodding as he finished the last of the meal and washed it down the the rest of his ale.

After paying for the lovely meal, both he and Caleb left and made their way to the meeting spot, which was at the dockyards of Boston. Though it was still early in the morning, the dockyards were busy with carpenters and workers alike shaping, sanding, and hulling ships that was to be slowly added to the growing American fleet. A few glanced their way, but most of them were paying more attention to their dangerous tasks than to a Continental officer and his associate strolling through the yards.

Caleb led him to a set of interconnected warehouses, filled mostly with small boats in different states of disrepair, along with fishing nets, cargo crates, and the like. It greatly reminded him of the warehouses by the central docks, but he pushed the uncomfortable feeling to the side as the two of them traversed deeper into the warehouses. That horrible affair with Major Smith and his ilk was done and over with – there would be no more children being smuggled out of Boston.

Soon, they arrived at a small, walled off room within one of the warehouses that strangely enough, had multiple doors that led into this one closed room. Caleb knocked in a pattern of one long, four short, two long knocks before opening the door without an affirmation of sorts. Stepping in after his friend and closing the door behind him, he followed his friend through a short hallway of cobwebs and tangle of old, foul-smelling ratlines and fishing nets. Entering the main room, he was utterly surprised to see who was already there.

General Washington, along with de Francy, were standing in the corner of the room, next to another door within the room. Washington's eyes were focused on Natalie, who was standing opposite of where he and Caleb had entered from, though Ben caught his commander's glance over at him. Sackett was standing next to Brewster, both of them conversing about something but had stopped as soon as he and Caleb had entered. There was another man, cloaked with his hood up, standing with his back towards all of them, next to Natalie, and had not even moved upon their entrance.

“Your Excellency,” Ben immediately greeted his commander.

“Major Tallmadge,” Washington answered, giving him a slight nod, though Ben could have sworn that he saw a strangely concerned look pass through his commander's eyes before they were focused back upon Natalie. “Agent Sackett,” Washington continued before anyone else could say a word, “now that we are all gathered, would you please brief the room as to why you have gathered us here this morning?”

“Yes, sir,” she answered. “As you all know, Agent de Francy and Ambassador Adams were able to convince Empress Catherine to ally with the United States. While negotiations were happening to make that possible, not only did I discover that Director Andre's devices transported Russia's only fission submarine, the _White Star_ , but also all thirty members of the Russian Secret Service's police force. They had been in the midst of carrying out a joint operation with the _White Star_ in the Britannian colony of France when they were transported. I've brought the commander here to introduce and brief you in the hopes that perhaps they may provide security services during this fete.”

“Julian Alton-Tallmadge,” the cloaked man standing next to Natalie stated, turning around and removing the hood from his head. “Commander of Tsarina Alexandra Valentinovna Volkova's Third Section.”

Ben found himself taking a step back, not only in surprise but also in utter shock, as he flung a hand out towards Caleb to steady himself. The man looked exactly like his father, who had been killed by Captain Simcoe last December.

 

~*~*~*~

 


	25. The Red October

**Chapter 25: The Red October**

 

“Caleb, how does one end up with such a terrible family?”

He looked over the lip of his mug, stopping mid-sip in both surprise and relief as he saw his friend finally put his quill down after what felt like hours upon hours of just watching him write and hoping that Ben would not take any rash actions after what had happened the day before...

 

_The silence within the dank, sour-smelling room was palpable following the man's rather curt and blunt greeting and introduction to those gathered. However, it did not linger long, for Alton-Tallmadge then said, “While it is not standard protocol for any of us in the Third Section to show ourselves when being contracted to support any of our agents in the field, the circumstances are quite unusual enough that well, frankly, protocol be damned.”_

“ _Mr... Agent...” Washington began, taking a step forward._

“ _Just Mister, General Washington,” the man said, though not in a casual tone and instead, in the same type of brisk, no-nonsense tone that Ben remembered Natalie adopting as her public persona. “I and my men are not asset-agents with the necessary credentials. We're just the field operatives.”_

“ _Yes...” Ben heard his commander say, elongating the affirmative a little more than the usual intonation and cadence that he spoke at. “Quite interesting then, Mr. Alton-Tallmadge. What does this Third Section do?”_

“ _Briefly?” the man answered. “We operate within the Russian Secret Service command structure. We are thirty in total, six-man teams who get called in whenever an asset-agent requires it. Agent Sackett here requested our assistance, but did not specify what was needed. What do you need us to do, General?”_

_Ben was surprised when Washington glanced over towards Sackett who hastily pushed up his spectacles with a finger before clearing his throat – it was very unusual for him to be flustered like this – and took a couple of steps forward. Caleb had not specified the details of what this meeting was about, other than it was about security, so what on earth was making Sackett so nervous? He glanced back towards the man who looked just like his dead father, but there was absolutely no look of awe that he was used to seeing the future people grace Washington and many other supposedly 'famous' historical figures. Instead, there was a rather mild, expectant look upon the man's face – everything about the man's stance, facial expression, even the clothes he wore underneath the cloak (colonial) screamed normal._

_And then it hit him. The man looked so ordinary, so simple, and was most likely able to stand in a crowd and would not be noticed – that was what made Sackett nervous; his mentor saw Alton-Tallmadge as a genuine threat. Someone who was able to easily not be seen in even the smallest of crowds that a person would not know what had hit him until it was already too late. He could only surmise that whatever his mentor had gone through or done during his time in England's Diplomatic Corps, the appearance of such a type of man, regardless of how much the man looked like his father, was bringing bad memories back._

“ _Nathaniel Sackett, adviser to General Washington,” Sackett said, introducing himself. “Several months ago, during the questioning of an enemy agent we captured, she was killed by one of three potential assassins from your time. We have reason to believe that these three may be targeting certain people whom are vital to preserve America's history. We were expecting MI6 Director John Andre to appear at this alliance fete, due to certain circumstances that happened last year, and while we are able to contain him if he does appear, it is the three assassins that we may not be able to stop. We believe that they may be targeting Mrs. Adams and her family, and perhaps other prominent members of Congress who will be at this fete.”_

“ _Your agent who spotted this threat, is she dead yet?”_

_Ben saw Sackett frown for a moment before asking, “How did you know the agent is a 'she'?”_

“ _Breathing pattern, the way you're standing, your initial nervousness, and your era's regards to women's life roles. I've had quite a lot of time to observe it while in this era's Europe,” the man answered. “You don't mind recruiting and teaching them the methodologies, but you don't like to send women agents into the field unless you absolutely have to, and you had to while you served in Europe, didn't you? But not when it comes to your family, it seems. Your agent who saw the threat is someone of your family, ergo, she.” However, the man held up his right index finger, as if another idea had come to mind as he then said, “But even that assessment is false, and you're not really nervous or worried are you, Mr. Sackett?”_

_Instead of an even more flustered look appearing on Sackett's face, Ben saw a rather wide, thin smile appear on his mentor's face. That smile was not entirely friendly by nature, but it was Sackett's next words that hammered in at just how out of depth Ben felt he was in terms of this type of intrigue. “No. But I suppose that someone of your calibre would be serving in a capacity that enables your Tsarina to deploy you and your secret police much like Britannia deploys the Sheridan Rangers. The Third Section is the Sheridan Rangers counterpart, except for the fact that you are thirty while they are 700.”_

“ _While it may seem to be a game of numbers, it is not. Names or description of the assassins from your agent who already spotted them,” Alton-Tallmadge stated quite bluntly, not even bothering to confirm whether or not Sackett's statement was true._

“ _The agent is not fully trained,” Sackett said, “but nevertheless, has given a detailed description of where and how many times she has seen the threats.” Ben saw him pull out a folded map, unfurl it, and place it against one of the walls in the room, piercing the parchment using nails that were already hanging bare on the walls. Taking a step back just as all of them crowded around in a semi-circle around the map, Sackett continued to say, “The X marks on the map show where the threats, two marksmen wearing all black clothing similar to what the future army wears, were initially sighted. The dash lines mark where she observed them following either the Adams family or Nabby Adams when the young woman was returning home after some hours of playing with her friends.”_

“ _Hold on a minute,” Ben could not help but interrupt his mentor's briefing as he realized exactly who was Sackett's mysterious 'agent'. “You recruited your_ daughter _?!”_

“ _No,” Sackett bluntly answered. “She did this of her own volition.”_

_Ben found himself at a loss of words, disbelieving that after everything, Sackett was willing, even if he denied it, to put his family in harm's way. A quick glance over to Washington allowed him to see some concern grace his commander's eyes. Even Caleb looked a little worried, after all, his friend had been there with him during the terrible incident with Major Smith and the child smuggling ring. However, from Brewster and surprisingly Natalie, both of them did not look worried or concerned – they held their expressions quite neutrally._

“ _Two you say,” Alton-Tallmadge spoke up in the brief silence. “Yet considering you said there were three assassins from our era, are you certain that your agent was not seen by the two or any others?”_

“ _Quite certain,” Sackett answered with absolute confidence within his tone, “There was an incident that happened over this past winter, but she utilized the resultant of that incident to establish an informal web of intelligence through her classmates. After her first observation of the two on the rooftops, one of her classmates informed her that strangers had been spotted lurking near the Adams family's residence. Word was sent to the watchmen of the city and since then, they have been out in force not only during the times when the family is present in the city, but also when other leaders were out. She utilized that to her advantage during her other two observations.”_

_Caleb's whistle of admiration was all that was needed, in Ben's opinion, on just how shrewd and cunning Sackett and Lottie were. He would have to wait to privately converse with his mentor on just how young Lottie had been plying Sackett's given trade, but for now, he let it be. In just the minutes that had passed within this strange briefing, he realized just how carefully observant Sackett was, and could only assume that Lottie had been a quick study, even without formal training from her father._

_However, as surprised and admired he and Caleb were for Lottie's initiative, it seemed that the commander of the Third Section didn't care, saying, “Any description of the weapons the two were holding?”_

“ _Longer than a Pennsylvania rifle, with an unusual spyglass of sorts attached to it. Colored in black that did not seem to shine,” Sackett answered._

“ _Did your captured enemy agent divulge any information about the three assassins before being killed?”_

“ _Names only, sir,” Brewster spoke up. “Lieutenant Carrie Brewster of the 2 nd Legionnaires. The agent we questioned was Abigail Woodhull, who was turned to serve Director Andre and Britannian interests. She gave us a list of seven agents, including herself and the three assassins, who are active in this era. The agents are Jonathan Simcoe, Robb Townsend, Abigail Woodhull, and Irina Sackett. The three assassins are Peter Sackett, Yelena Sackett, and Magdalena Alton-Tallmadge.”_

“ _Do you have eyes on the agents?” Alton-Tallmadge questioned, giving absolutely no sign of reacting to the assassin who held the same surname as he did. Though Ben was not sure of the two's connection to each other, he suspected that either Magdalena Alton-Tallmadge was of some relations to the man; either his wife or sister. However, he dared not ask – not after hearing and seeing just how cold and uncaring Alton-Tallmadge was with regards to talk that did not directly pertain to the matter at hand._

_He caught Brewster's glance over at him and knew that it was his turn now, to continue to brief their ally. Mentally squaring himself, he knew that sticking with the absolute facts and not putting anything extraneous into his report was the only way to end this briefing as fast as possible and secure the Third Section's help. Alton-Tallmadge was one not for any small talk or unwanted and interjected opinions of the sort._

“ _Jonathan Simcoe was last seen in New York City,” he stated, “by one of our agents. We do not have a confirmation of Robb Townsend's location. Abigail Woodhull was killed and her body burned. Irina Sackett is being watched by Lieutenant General Washington.”_

“ _If you would allow me to interrupt you, Mr. Alton-Tallmadge,” Washington spoke up as soon as Ben fell silent. “Were you not briefed by Agent Sackett before or during your crossing of the Atlantic?”_

“ _Yes,” the man answered. “I am merely reconfirming Natalia's report and ensuring that the chain of command that was built with the combining of your spy rings is still robust. I have an idea of what services you want me and my people to provide, but we cannot do so if there are clear disagreements as to the direction we will be headed. Which there are.”_

_Ben was not only one to frown as he saw that other around him except for de Francy, wore nearly the same expression as he did. “Pardon me, but I don't believe that we are following your words,” he said as politely as he could._

“ _You, your informants, and agents within the city are grossly behind the tracking of three of the hardest targets to track in the world. Possibly four if we count Townsend within this, Major Tallmadge,” the man answered. “I'll be candid on how the Third Section will protect those at this fete your leaders want to host, but you, Major, you need to plan and brief your agents within the city – all of them – on what will happen_ inside _during the fete. Bribe whomever you need to, but get every single agent into that fete, because we need everyone watching to make sure that not only are the 6 th President of the United States and his family not assassinated, but also many other current and future members of Congress as well.”_

 

“By terrible,” Caleb asked after swallowing the small sip and placing his ale down, noticing that Ben's mug of ale was still untouched. Only the cup of coffee had been completely drained. “I'm assuming that you're talking about your descendants, right?”

His friend silently nodded before rubbing his face with his hands and then resting his forehead against his folded hands, with his elbows propping them up. Caleb truly felt an ache in his heart for Ben – it seemed that after their initial introduction to the future-people, learning about their families and their allegiances to America and to the rebellion was so simple and straightforward. Then came the dark revelations, of how society was in the future, along with the ever-changing allegiances and betrayal of people they thought who were good in the future. Compared to his own descendant, Carrie, it seemed that a great weight was upon any person with the Tallmadge name, rebel or turned loyalist.

“I can't believe Samantha's father would even say that about his own wife,” he heard Ben mutter. “What kind of man doesn't even care enough to try to save someone he loves?”

Caleb remained silent, not knowing any words that would help comfort Ben at this time. He had been just as shocked as the rest of them when Washington had asked about Alton-Tallmadge's relationship to Magdalena Alton-Tallmadge, after the man had stated that the three were to be killed and not captured if encountered under any circumstances. Even Natalie had an appalled look at the blanket statement to kill the three, and he saw her as the most level-headed agent of those in the ring.

“All right, last call!” the distant call of Mr. Freeman down below on the first floor of the inn echoed to the second floor. “We're closing early today gents, so get your last orders in!”

It was empty on the second floor, save for him and Ben sitting at their table with the mugs of ale and Ben's cup of coffee. Even the rooms that would be normally occupied by patrons who needed a place to stay for the night were empty, and it was all because of what was happening tonight. Unlike what had happened in the morning, gathering the entire Boston portion of the ring at a location such as the shipyards was too risky, since these were people who needed to blend into the crowds, not stand out. The only reason why the shipyards was designated as a meeting place this morning was because seeing Continental Army members, especially Washington, stroll through the shipyards was good for the public's view.

As soon as that briefing had concluded, Ben had sequestered himself in the Green Dragon Inn, sending him, Caleb, out to pass word onto all members of the Boston-based ring to gather at the inn. He also had the job of convincing Mr. and Mrs. Freeman to close early for the meeting to happen, and though he did not tell the proprietors the whole truth, the look in their eyes told him that they understood on some level that emptying the inn and allowing certain persons into the inn through the back door was in the best interest to the Continental Army.

A few minutes after Mr. Freeman had designated the last call for orders, the creak of footsteps upon the stairs leading up caused both him and Ben to look up and over to see Mrs. Freeman making her way up. There was a tired smile upon her face as she said, “The last of the patrons are leaving, dearies. Gordon and I will start cleaning the place soon and will let your associates in through the back when they arrive. Would you like a refill or anything for your associates?”

He saw Ben glance over at him, not knowing just how many were coming. That was the one thing he had not informed Ben yet – just how many had been recruited as agents within the city, for there had not been enough time. Ben had been extremely busy trying to catch up on all reports, and Caleb had not wanted to disturb him about the agents he and Carrie had recruited while Natalie was gone. “A pitcher of ale, and two pots, one coffee and the other tea, please Mrs. Freeman,” he supplied. “We're expecting seven additional associates.”

“I'll have your orders for you shortly, dearies,” Mrs. Freeman answered, smiling at them before leaving. The two of them waited in silence for a few minutes until the woman returned with the requested drinks.

“Seven?” Ben asked as soon as she left.

“Well, three you should already know, Tall-boy,” he answered. “Carrie's on her way back to Lady Washington. So aside from her, we have Natalie, that Shippen girl, and Sackett. I also told Frenchie to attend. Figured that he might have some good experiences doing this sort of stuff back in his country. The other three, well, considering what we learned this morning about Sackett's daughter... she's already involved, whether or not we like it, Ben.”

“I don't,” his friend stated in a short, angry tone. “She's only fifteen! She's too young to be involved in this business!”

“I was fifteen when I was recruited into my motherland's service.”

Caleb was glad that he was not the only one who was startled as both he and Ben looked up and over to see Natalie leaning against the staircase, the hood of her cloak pushed back from her head as she gave both of them a mild look. Neither of them had heard her approach, which caused an uneasy feeling to bloom in his stomach – Natalie was a trained and experienced agent, both by the Russians and the Britannians prior to her defection. Considering that earlier in the day, they found out that Alton-Tallmadge had been the one to gather, organize, and authorize the seventeen assassins to kill Director Andre, Natalie sneaking up on them right now could have been far worse had she been an enemy agent or worse, one of the assassins.

“Natalie,” he heard Ben began in an apologetic tone, “I apologize, I didn't mean to imply--”

“We can discuss that later in private,” she said, shaking her head slightly as she came over, took off her cloak before draping it over her seat and sat opposite of Caleb, on the left hand side of Ben. “The other agents are here.”

He held himself back from giving either Natalie or Ben a rather knowing look, though he couldn't help but wonder if either were going to do anything more intimately interesting besides 'talk'. Still, he did not have time to linger on that thought as he heard the creak of the wooden stairs and footsteps upon them signal more people arriving. First to arrive after Natalie was de Francy, who took a feathered tricorn that had been pulled low over his head off and placed it on the table as he greeted, “Major Tallmadge.”

“Agent de Francy,” Ben answered in equal curtness. “Many thanks for the detailed reports of your European mission.”

As soon as the Frenchman was settled, taking a seat next to Natalie – to which Caleb did not miss the rather interesting glance that Ben had given the Frenchman – two more people climbed up. Both were talking to each other, surprised that both had been asked to attend this meeting, but Caleb recognized their voices even with their hoods still up.

Local watchman Ethan Archer, and schoolmaster Archibald James, whom he and Ben had made acquaintances over the winter, had been individually recruited by him. Neither knew the other was a part of the ring until tonight. However, neither did Ben, and Caleb watched with slight amusement as the two men stopped at the top of the stairs, pushed back their hoods and stared in surprised at just who had been gathered thus far.

“Um, Major Tallmadge, sir,” Archer said. “I thought you were commander of the 2nd Continental Light Dragoons...”

“All will be explained shortly, Mr. Archer,” Ben answered, gesturing with an open arm and hand towards the empty seats at the table. There was absolutely no sign of his surprise at the fact that their two acquaintances were a part of the Boston-based ring. “Please have a seat. You too, Archibald. Thank you both for coming.”

Though he could tell that the two were still puzzled, they silently took their seats, draping their cloaks over the chairs. Caleb saw Ben returned briefly to the notes that he had written earlier, most likely gathering his thoughts and getting ready to brief the group. However, as the minutes passed as they all waited for the final three to show up, Archer took the initiative and introduced himself to Natalie and de Francy. Caleb did not miss the confused look that both Archer and James had when Natalie introduced herself, but that was cut short with the arrival of their final three.

It was Shippen who first withdrew her hood, casting an apprehensive glance around the table before catching Ben's eyes and merely stated, “Major.”

“Miss Shippen,” Ben answered, though Caleb thought he heard the undercurrent of hesitation in his friend's tone.

However, even as the shocked eyes of both Archer and James were focused on the Shippen girl as she gingerly took a seat next to the schoolmaster but did not remove her cloak, they were quickly refocused on the final two arrivals. “It's all right now, you can remove your hood,” he heard Sackett say as he saw the man remove his own hood and cloak before helping their final guest with her outerwear.

Bright, serious but nervous eyes belonging to Lottie Sackett stared at them. “Oh my... um, hello,” she stuttered, flushing bright red as Sackett led her to the table, draping their cloaks over the final two empty chairs.

“Mr. Sackett and Miss Sackett,” Ben said in the same tone he had used when greeting the other agents, “welcome.” There was nothing in that tone to suggest that he was not happy with what Sackett had done, and try as he might, Caleb could not even detect any sort of emotional inflection within that tone. Gone was the usual hint of what Ben felt about things, even the most minor of them, replaced by something that was akin to how Natalie and Alton-Tallmadge debriefed people. It was quite frightening to see such a subtle change within his friend, and though Ben had not said much about his time in captivity during his recovery, Caleb wondered just what on earth had happened to change him even if it was a small, but significant change.

“I'll be brief before we start,” Ben said, placing his quill back into the inkwell before collecting a large sheaf of papers and putting them to the side. What was left on the bottom of the reports was a few thickly folded pieces, which he slid towards the center but did not unfold them just yet. “Some of you know me as the commander of the 2nd Light. I am also the Continental Army's Head of Intelligence, and it has come to my attention that there may be persons involved or will attempt to carry out nefarious deeds during this upcoming fete for America's new allies. We have been tasked by General Washington to prevent such a thing from happening within the fete itself. This is how we'll do so...”

* * *

_The next afternoon..._

 

Nathaniel squinted slightly, peering through the spectacles that were perched on his nose as the youthful voice of one of the Quaker schoolmaster, Archibald James's students answered a question. Though he had been living in the city for the past few months, he did not take an active part in recruiting for the Boston-based Culper ring, leaving that duty to the Brewsters-two. Instead, his duties had tended more towards the political and diplomatic, more towards what he had done as both a cover and as his actual job within the English Diplomatic Corps.

He knew that even with the good relations that George had with Congress, battlefield and camp rumors were the hardest things to squash, and thus he had spent his time ensuring that his friend continued to remain in command of the Continental Army. He would have preferred to have done such duties in Philadelphia, but with most of the attention drawn to Rhode Island with the cleverly timed ousting of whatever foothold British forces were trying to make, the northeastern influence would be vital to continue to make sure that General Washington remained a general.

Thus last night was the first time he had seen the entirety of the Boston-based ring as a whole. Though he counted his wife among the ring, she had stayed home this time to ensure that David was protected and watched over. He had not meant to force Major Tallmadge to do what needed to be done, but the boy was not as politically astute as he would have preferred, even after all that had happened. He knew that his perceived recklessness in bringing harm to the city by exposing Elizabeth as the daughter of an estranged English Lord Viscount was not well received, but it was the necessary push he needed to give so that Tallmadge could see that absolute control over the ring was needed. They could not afford another Philadelphia incident, especially now that there was an actual military alliance between two old European empires and a fledgling nation being had. He'd rather destroy whatever personable relationship he had with the boy than let the British or Britannia have their way again.

Squinting slightly again as he carefully read through the short-hand notes in his journal he had made last night about the members of the ring, he crinkled his nose slightly as he looked back up to see the schoolmaster correct the student's response before going back to the chalkboard and write a few more items down. Quills scratched upon the surfaces of parchment as the students copied down the schoolmaster's words. He thought that Archibald James was an astute schoolmaster, if not a bit stiff and dry in how his lectures were presented. Though after the excitement of what had happened over the winter, especially with Tallmadge's rather interesting propensity to get into trouble wherever he went, Nathaniel supposed that the students in James's schoolhouse would be a bit bored by the way lectures were now taught.

However, Tallmadge's plan to enable a plain Quaker schoolmaster to attend the fete was rather fascinating from a social standpoint, for they were going to use the Adams name to get the schoolmaster an invitation – the one who taught Nabby Adams. Archibald James would be the one who would be among the Adams family the most, Lottie not withstanding, and the one who would be able to get them out of harm's way if need be.

At the thought of his daughter, Nathaniel focused his eyes upon her, watching her sit attentively in her chair. Though Miss Shippen was not present today, having been given a day off to attend to whatever she needed to, especially now that it was known throughout most of Boston that she had the eye and affection of the courageous General Arnold, he had taken his children to school today. Little David was still wriggling in his seat, but oddly enough, for all that he had heard of Lottie's confident behavior within the classroom, she was quite silent today.

He didn't blame her for the lack of participation within the classroom, but knew that he would need to teach her to separate what she now did for the Continental Army, and her schooling and future. He had only himself to blame for what had happened in the past two days that upended his daughter's life. He quietly sighed to himself, knowing that Natalie's rather harsh words to him were correct – he had not wanted the same life for Lottie as he had been through, especially while serving within the Diplomatic Corps, but she was too observant, too much like him. Thus he vowed to never make that mistake again, and to watch his children a little more carefully, especially David.

The sudden clatter of books being shut, the scrape of feet shuffling on the floor, and the rising murmurs of the students reveling in the school day that was done shook him out of his reverie. Closing his small journal, he tucked it into a vest pocket and stood up just as the other tutors, governesses, and parents who were sitting near the entrance to the schoolhouse did. At once, he saw David scramble out of his seat and run towards him, barely slowing down before wrapping his arms around his waist, while burying his head into his side.

Lottie was a little more dignified in manner as she gathered up their schoolbooks and came over, saying, “Father. I'm glad to see that today's lecture did not bore you.”

“Lottie,” he said, extracting himself from his son's embrace as he took his son's hand into one of his own before offering a hooked arm for his daughter to take. As they exited the schoolhouse, he continued to say, “I found the lecture rather underwhelming. I'm sure that Mr. James could have found a more interesting topic to discuss rather than the reign of Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius Commodus Antoninus Augustus.”

“And just what would you have discussed, Father?” she asked, as they walked along the busy streets.

“Perhaps something of the more recent nature. About our French friends and Russian allies,” he answered, “after all, are not most of your classmates' parents merchants? Learning as much as we can about our new friends would greatly help them in whatever endeavors they wish to pursue.”

Silence answered him for a moment as he glanced over to see a pensive look upon her face. “What is it that you wish me to become, Father?” she quietly asked. “An apothecary's apprentice by day like Mother, a well-matched and married woman to someone of repute, or perhaps someone like you, whom I thought was a merchant dealing with sensitive cargo and the like. Your encryption of your ledgers told me as much. Why did you not tell me that you were of England's Diplomatic Corps, Father? Why did Mother not tell me of her noble birth?”

“Because, my child,” he said in a patient tone, “they were not important. Your mother and I, we left that life behind when we came here, because in the course of what we did in England, we made too many enemies. We did not want you or David to grow up in such a place.”

“But it is all right for you to allow Natalie to do as she wants, to take risks, to engage in this... trade?” she accused. “Not to mention Miss Margaret as well? And yet you did not let me learn?”

“Because neither of them had a choice in the matter, Lottie,” he answered, hoping that he would not have to delve into the details of what exactly had brought Natalie and the Shippen girl to their doorsteps. Lottie knew little of the circumstances surrounding Natalie's appearance and of the future-agent's war, and he wanted to keep it that way. Shippen's was even more personal, and despite what had happened in Philadelphia, he held no ill will against the young woman – she was as much victim as he was in the grand scheme of things. His daughter already had enough on her mind, and yesterday's meeting was only one more to add to his worry about her.

“Should I chose this life, will I do so with or without your approval, Father?”

“I will support whatever choice you decide upon, my dear,” he said, glancing over at her, giving her a reassuring look. “It is time that I properly teach you how to go about this business, if you want to do so.”

“And what of David?” she asked, peering over.

“Both of you shall learn the skills that allowed your mother and I to survive our time in London. It may be a little late for you, but it is never too late for David, though I know that you will pick up the necessary skills quite fast. This war is quickly changing, Lottie, and there may be times in which I or your mother will not be there for you. I am truly sorry for keeping both you and your brother away from this business, but I did think it was for the best.”

“I want to help, Father,” she answered in a firm tone.

“Then let us begin our first lesson in a certain place so that you and your brother may become used to the presence of certain types of people,” he said, guiding her towards the heart of the city.

The three of them soon arrived at a rather busy area of the city, most due in part to the fact that this was where the headquarters for the garrison was. This was also where General Washington had made his headquarters for his brief stay in the city. Officers, enlisted men, and militiamen were going about throughout the main street along this portion of Boston, and the rest of the crowd were either made up of curious passerby, admirers, or merchants and civilians who lived in the area and were going about their own businesses.

“Heady feeling is it not?” he asked as they stopped by a line of farmer-merchants selling crisp, fresh-picked apples in the middle of the wide street. He glanced over to see that there was a bit of color in his daughter's cheeks as she stared at the seemingly chaotic happenings around her, but knew that the rose in her cheeks was not wholly due in part to the cool, autumn breeze. “This is your first lesson, Lottie. You must master control over your emotional reaction in seeing these fine, sharply dressed men.”

“Father--” she protested as he plucked an apple out of the many displayed and paid the merchant before leading his son and daughter a bit away. Giving the apple to his son, he couldn't help but smile slightly as he saw a particular person cross the street to get to Washington's temporary residence.

“Major Tallmadge,” he called out, startling both his daughter and the young man, who looked over towards where they were and deviated from his approach to Washington's residence.

“Mr. Sackett,” Tallmadge greeted in a polite manner that sounded personable, but Nathaniel knew the young man well enough to hear the nearly hidden inflection of disapproval within the tone. “Miss Sackett and David. What brings the three of you here today?”

“The result of a rather dry, boring lesson about the Roman Emperor Commodus taught by a certain schoolmaster,” he answered as his quick glance over towards his daughter confirmed not only what his wife had told him, but also his own thoughts about a particular matter. It was important that she learned this first lesson quite fast, for he would not always be at her side during the fete and knew that she needed to handle things on her own. “Along with an inquiry as to your health, and finally... an apology.”

“Apology?” Tallmadge asked, frowning slightly as the disapproving tone disappeared from his voice. “Whatever for?”

“I believe that you know what I am talking about, Major,” he said.

The office was silent for a few moments, eyes searching, curious, but then a moment later, a dawning look appeared in them as the man, inclined his head ever so slightly and said, “Then it is accepted. I hope everything will turn out well, Mr. Sackett.”

“Thank you,” he answered, noticing something slightly odd and out of place in the officer's usually crisp appearance, “and I trust that your wound is healing as well? I don't recall you being injured in the neck. Might it have been recently acquired... perhaps this morning? That bruise looks quite--”

As he suspected, Tallmadge's eyes immediately widened slightly as he saw him flush pink before he hastily tugged his cravat up to cover the 'bruise', or 'love bite' as the phrase crossed his mind. How Sackett managed to keep the knowing smirk off of his face was a wonder to even himself. It was really none of his business what both Washington's Head of Intelligence and a certain female agent from the future did with their own time together, but he was well aware of the public perceptions and appearances both strove to maintain. Instead, he settled for a usual 'hmph' of indifference, giving his favorite pupil of a certain trade the benefit of the doubt as to what intimate activities he suspected the two of engaging in.

“Well,” Tallmadge said after a moment, still slightly flustered, “I wish I could stay, but I've a meeting to attend to. Please give my regards to your wife, Mr. Sackett.” Turning his attention to Lottie and David, Tallmadge then said, “Miss Sackett, David, it was a pleasure seeing both of you again. Until next time.”

Enamored, Nathaniel saw his daughter merely raise her hand up to wave a farewell, while David continued to busily munch on his apple, giving the officer a grin behind the apple. Not a moment later, Tallmadge left, and as predicted, he heard his daughter dreamily sigh as soon as the young man had disappeared over the threshold of Washington's residence.

“Lottie, what if he were the enemy?” he quietly asked. “What if we were in British territory right now, and he was the enemy? Would you still pine after him as you do now?”

“But Father!” she said, horror shining through her eyes as she glanced over at him. “How could you?”

“Your mother told me of what you asked of Major Tallmadge before he left,” he said, slowly guiding her through the crowds of military men and civilians while he took little David by a sticky, chewed apple-mashed hand. “Under any other circumstances, I would approve of what you did, but these are times in which I will not approve of you courting _any_ officer, even the Major.”

He let her arm go and gestured around, saying, “What we... what this business that I, the Major, and his trusted associates are engaged in, is very dangerous, Lottie. People have died because of what we have done. I was one of those who had been captured by enemy agents last year and used to lure certain persons of interest into a trap. I only survived because of Major Tallmadge. You must learn to put aside your feelings in the matter and look at everyone objectively. Feelings cannot compound your assessment and observations. Your need to protect Nabby is admirable, but it is as what was discussed yesterday – this plot that we are now a part of, is much larger than just one friend and her family.”

“Father,” Lottie said, placing a hand on his arm to stop them from walking. “Listen to yourself, do you even trust yourself? Trust mother? Trust David and I?”

“I trusted the wrong people when we were living in London,” he said, giving her a sad smile. “Your mother warned me several times, but I never listened to her until certain things happened that forced us to leave. I don't want that to happen to you, but I cannot stop it if it does. All I can do is impart a bit of wisdom learned from my own experiences.”

“But how can you live this way, Father? There must be a point in which you must trust someone.”

“Not someone, Lottie,” he answered, “in something. I trust in the fight that is for this country's freedom, no matter what course it takes because there will always be someone who will do the right thing, even if he or she is vilified in the aftermath, to ensure that we are no longer under the thumb of a mad king's rule.”

* * *

“How may I be of service, sir?” Ben politely asked, clasping his hands behind him as he attentively stood before his commander.

He had gotten little sleep after the full briefing to all agents within the Boston-based ring, but overall, he felt that the plan to stop the three assassins and anything else Britannia could try to attempt at the party was quite solid. In the morning though, Hamilton had stopped by the inn to deliver a message that Washington had asked to meet with him in the afternoon. He was aware that his commander had specifically told him not to detail the plan to him, trusting him to carry out whatever was necessary to protect their future. Though he felt proud that he had such an intimate level of trust from his commander, this particular summon was a bit puzzling to him.

“This,” Washington stated, picking up a letter that contained three sheets folded together and handed it to him, “was sent directly from New Haven via Culper agents during the time of the Rhode Island battles.”

“New Haven?” he questioned as he unfolded the letter and looked at it. It had not been decoded. He could read it, mentally decoding it in his mind, but he knew that normally, Washington would have either Hamilton or Laurens decode the Culper or scouting reports that came from him or the ring. “Sir, this is still encoded.”

“And it shall remain so until we can get to the heart of the matter,” he heard his commander say as he looked up to see a sharp gleam within Washington's eyes. Looking back down, he continued to read through the missive, noting that the handwriting looked like Abe's handwriting, but the tone and wording was not. Abe's reports were always sprinkled with complaints about his farm and crops, to make it a little more secure, but this particular three-page letter contained complaints about not only crops but also tavern ales and food, and nasty, opportunistic seagulls.

“So Culper was successfully exfiltrated to New Haven then,” he stated, looking back up at his commander and handed the letter back. However, Washington did not take the letters and instead, pulled out another letter, this time, a single paged one and gave it to him. Taking it, he unfolded it, noting that the creases of the letter matched the three-paged letter he was holding. “Anna?” he whispered as he recognized the handwriting that graced the page. He was further surprised at just how heavily encoded the missive was – had Anna also memorized the codebook? He couldn't help but feel a bit of pride in what his two agents had done with their letters.

However, that pride was quickly dashed as he read through the contents of Anna's missive, which was not interspersed with complaints or anything of the sort. Instead, it was a fairly blunt assessment report of what had happened; how she and her descendant, Andrew Strong, had escaped New York. It also contained a precise report on how Abe, Abe's family, Agent 355 and her son, arrived to New Haven and their assistance from Samantha. Finally, it was the last part that worried him most – they had encountered one Captain Simcoe, but given the situation that Abe and his family had left Setauket, none of them were sure which Simcoe was in New Haven and which one was marching upon Setauket to take command from Major Hewlett.

“What's Simcoe doing in New Haven?” he couldn't help but mutter to himself, not making sense of the various names that Anna had listed in her report as he realized that Abe's nearly nonsensical report was only to cover Anna's report should it be intercepted before it arrived in Washington's hands. It was a perfect replica of how the Trenton intelligence was delivered.

“General Arnold's sister and his sons live in New Haven,” Washington quietly stated.

Looking up in alarm, he quickly looked back down at the report and reread the listed names until he got to one. He looked up at his commander, saying, “Hannah Arnold?”

Silence answered his question, but before it became a little too long and uncomfortable, he saw his commander pull out a small leaflet from within his inner left pocket of his jacket that looked to be ripped from a journal. However, Washington did not hand it to him and instead, placed it on the desk, open faced, and tapped a finger upon it. “While we were in Philadelphia, Mr. Sackett intercepted a letter from Hannah Arnold that was supposed to be delivered to General Arnold in Morristown, detailing the beginnings of Miss Arnold's courtship with one 'Mr. Shaun Graves'. I have given the name to my counterpart, but have not received any details on this man. She and her people don't know who he is.”

“Shaun Graves,” he said, rolling the name around in his head until it suddenly struck him like lightning. “John Graves Simcoe?” he asked, eyes widening with realization.

“Possibly,” Washington answered, “given the description that your agents have told of the fact that Captain Simcoe was seen visiting Miss Arnold's apothecary shop many a times. Give the name to your agents in New Haven, Major. I want to know who he really is, and if this Mr. Graves is indeed Captain Simcoe, we will need to assess whether or not he is this Deputy Director Simcoe who has assisted us or the real Captain Simcoe.”

“Sir, if he is the real Captain Simcoe of our era, what then? My agents will be compromised once again if Simcoe sees them and reports back to Major Andre that they're in New Haven,” he asked, worry coloring his tone.

“Your recommendation?” Washington asked.

“We can't publicly expose him and we can't arrest him, sir,” he said after a moment's pause, knowing what had to be done to keep his agents safe and to keep a reputation of a vaunted Continental Army general from being destroyed. “Anna's report states that he also has men within the city, so to do so would—”

“Expose to the British and Britannian forces and any of their other agents within the western half of Connecticut that we have agents within New Haven and contested territory,” his commander finished.

“Right,” he said, nodding. “So we kill him. Quietly. I'll even do it myself once we get details on Simcoe's men and their activities.”

Relief filled him as he saw an understanding look pass through Washington's eyes as his commander said, “Make it look like an accident, if possible.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And how soon do you think that Mr. Culper and your other agents will be able to verify Simcoe's identity?”

“I'll send Lieutenant Brewster to establish contact and a dead drop tonight, sir. If all goes well, I will be able to infiltrate the city by the end of November,” stated, hoping that his confidence was not going to be misplaced on Abe and Anna's abilities to get information. He wasn't sure about this Andrew Strong character, but given that Anna was confident in him and vouched that he was a member of the Culpeper Ring, the agent would have incentive to keep his ancestor alive.

“Good,” Washington said as Ben handed the letters back to him. “When next you have reports from Culper, please do mention the weather and the condition of the flesh-and-blood horses in your unit, Major.”

“Sir?” he questioned, puzzled, but then realized what exactly Washington meant with his words.

The ring, though expanded, was still rife with potential leaks. It didn't matter what they tried to do to stymie the leaks, but in order to continue to protect and fight back against British and Britannian intelligence operations, his commander wanted to keep this particular mission as close to his heart as possible. This potential assassination was going to be played in the same manner as it was done to capture General Lee's treasonous activities, only now it was him and Washington who knew about it and it would stay that way. He would not even breathe a word to Natalie or to Mr. Sackett – he, Ben, was the one who suggested assassinating Captain Simcoe, and thus he needed to take responsibility for his words.

“I understand, Your Excellency,” he stated with absolute confidence.

* * *

_Boston, October 1778_

 

The beautiful red and golden yellow colors of the fall foliage that graced Boston and the surrounding countryside made it a spectacular sight to behold, especially with the dipping of the sun on the horizon on this clear, crisp autumn day. Fall festivities, were being held all over the city, but the main event was the one being held at Faneuil Hall, hosted by James Bowdoin and his wife, Elizabeth. While not as ostentatious as the soiree Ben had attended in Philadelphia last year for the victory at Brandywine, the guests attending this fete were much more important than those who were at Philadelphia.

Still, that did not mean he was still completely struck dumbfounded at the assortment of guests who were now arriving at this hour. Instead, he happened to be staring out at the city herself, stunned at just how beautiful the city looked with the sun setting against such a clear sky, illuminating the changing leaves in a halo of pure beauty. Boston, especially with the majesty of Faneuil Hall silhouetted against the waning light, looked positively radiant. The longer he stared outwards, the more curious guests who were not of this town also adopted the same stance as he did, marveling at just how majestic the city looked.

“I see Boston has done her duty in capturing your attention for her annual fall foliage display, Major Tallmadge.”

Ben looked down from his wide-eyed stare, feeling a little embarrassed as he saw that it was his mentor who had shaken him out of his reverie and was walking towards him, arm-in-arm with his wife. “Mr. and Mrs. Sackett,” he greeted cordially, the edges of his lips quirking up in a smile. “It's a pleasure to see both of you tonight.”

Gone was the usual dull, drab but neatly-pressed colors that Sackett wore everyday, replaced with a rather finely tailored three-piece with polished silver buttons, embossed with something on the flat surfaces that he could not identify due to the waning light. There was also a bit of silver filigreed threads sewn into the outfit. The only things that had not changed were the fact that Sackett still wore his hair the same and his spectacles were still carefully perched on his nose. As for Mrs. Sackett, she was quite a sight as well. She wore a fine, dark red dress that complemented Sackett's outfit. Her hair was done up much in the same elegant manner that he remembered many of the women at the Philadelphia party wearing their hair. The color that she wore upon her cheeks seemed to bring more liveliness into her overall appearance, but did not draw attention from her equally well-dressed husband. Even though Ben was in his pressed and stiff uniform, he felt oddly inadequate in dressage compared to the two.

“My boy, look at what you've started,” Sackett said, gesturing around, to which Ben saw that others besides him were marveling at the beauty of the sunset complementing the colorful leaves from the many trees that graced the city. “They're all marveling in the beauty of this city and rightly so. Oh how I've missed her.”

“You were originally from Boston?” he asked, curious for he knew little of the personal history of the man, even after working with him for this long. Sackett's revelation that he had been a part of England's Diplomatic Corps was just the beginning of him wanting to know more, but he was much too polite to inquire.

“I was born and raised here for the first five years of my life, Major,” Sackett said with a proud smile upon his face. “Then I moved to England. The autumnal season here in this city was the only thing I missed most, since due to my work, I was often away from areas which had seasons such as this or completely missed it before I returned to London.”

Ben smiled as he nodded to his mentor's words, though he was utterly distracted from conversing further with the appearance of young David, Lottie, and Natalie, all whom had emerged from another carriage that had bore them here. Little David looked like the splitting image of his father, dressed in the same type of outfit, but it was the stunning appearance of Lottie, and equally beautiful appearance of Natalie that took his breath away. The two could completely pass for sisters, one older than the other, for both were wearing burnished gold, elaborately decorated dresses that seemed to capture a shine with the waning sunlight.

However, before he could approach either one, their 'partners' for the night's festivities intercepted him, as was planned. When he had first planned for the execution of the operation, he had thought it more prudent to assign and pair up the less experienced agents with the more experienced one – hence de Francy coming from behind and gently catching Lottie and little David's attention, while Archibald shyly caught Natalie's attention. Now though, he had to admit that he was having some doubts and jealous feelings surface with his decision to assign his former classmate at Yale to be paired up with Natalie.

Quashing that feeling down, for he knew that it would not be conducive to ensuring the larger goal of protecting everyone at this fete, something out of the corner of his eyes caught his attention as Sackett and his wife passed by him to go into the hall. He couldn't help but grin as he saw little David embrace the French Intelligence agent around his legs, burying his head into the man's side. Even Lottie looked quite scandalized by the display and was looking a bit worriedly embarrassed around her.

Deciding that it would be better to help his agents out, rather than leave them to figure out what to do with the boy, he approached and said, “Good evening Miss Sackett and Mr. de Francy. I couldn't help but notice that little David has taking quite a liking to you, Mr. de Francy.”

“Yes,” the Frenchman answered, looking slightly flustered. “He is, um, how should I say, became quite attached to me during his journey to Europe for reasons that cannot fathom.”

“If you would please, allow me?” he asked, gesturing towards the boy. “I shall return him to his parents.”

“Yes, thank you, Major,” the Frenchman answered.

Taking the boy by the shoulder, he crouched down and caught David's attention. Upon seeing the boy's eyes widen in recognition, as soon as he saw his grip loosen upon de Francy's legs, he held out a hand. Silently and wide-eyed, the boy unclung himself from the Frenchman and without warning, latched out quite tightly to his extended hand. It was then that Ben realized that the boy was completely terrified and his heart ached for just how much fear swam in the depths of David's eyes. “Remember me, David?” he asked. The boy mutely nodded. “Come on, let's go find your mother, all right? Let your sister have some fun, okay?”

With another mute nod of affirmation from the boy, he slowly stood up, saying to both de Francy and Lottie, “I think he'll be better off with his mother. I shall see both of you inside.”

“Thank you, sir,” de Francy said, just as Lottie dipped into a graceful and grateful curtsy, her cheeks coloring red.

Taking the young boy by the hand, he made his way into the lively hall, feeling the boy's grip on his hand get tighter than it already was. However, the search for Mrs. Sackett was not long, for neither of the Sacketts were far into the hall or were participating in a rather energetic waltz. They were instead, conversing with the hosts of the fete, Mr. Bowdoin and his wife. He caught Mrs. Sackett's attention with a delicate touch of her arm, briefly drawing away her attention from the conversation as he transferred David's tight grip on his hand to hers.

Stepping back and away from the conversation, for he knew that there would be time later to introduce himself if need be to the hosts, it was the familiar voice and accent of Lafayette that caught his attention next. The man stepped up next to him with a glass of claret in his hand, saying, “When I was courting the beautiful ladies of my country, I found that the best way to do so was to return the rambunctious lap-sized dogs to their owners. Carrying them under one arm and always presenting the ladies with a smile. It seems that it is different here, especially with your return of a young, frightened child to his parents.”

“Sir?” he asked, puzzled.

Before Lafayette could answer, a rather casual arm landed on his shoulder as he glanced over to see Hamilton with a rather cheeky grin upon his face that was quite rosy from taking in a lot of wine. There was a goblet within the officer's hand, as the man said, “If only I had gotten to that boy first, then I would be drawing the attention of all the lovely ladies here. But alas, I must remain with you in order to even have a chance at winning their hand for a dance tonight.”

“I heartily agree, Alexander,” Laurens spoke up, wedging himself in between Lafayette and him, with the same type of claret that Lafayette held in his own hands. “It seems that Major Tallmadge here knows how to woo the hearts of the women. We must learn from him if we have any hope of acquiring beautiful wives in the future.”

“While I may already be married, _Monsieur_ Laurens and _Monsieur_ Hamilton, I shall help you in that endeavor,” Lafayette said as Ben looked around and realized that the three slightly inebriated officers were not jesting in their assessment. Somehow, with his small action in leading David back to his parents, he had drawn the attention of a large host of women, attached and unattached.

He resisted the urge to sigh as he could hear Caleb's ghostly laughter in his mind. While his friend was somewhere within the fete, he knew that Caleb was out of sight for the most part – refusing the shave his beard so that he could dress up in a proper lieutenant's uniform. Somewhere within the hall, Caleb was keeping an eye on things, and he would bet the next bottle of Madeira that came across his tent that his friend was outright laughing at him and his predicament.

Fortunately, he was saved from having to answer or defend himself from the three aides' accost with the timely arrival and entrance of General Washington. “General, sir,” the four of them said at nearly the same time, as their commander entered the hall with a diminutive, but powerfully graceful woman by his side. He realized that this woman dressed in a formal dark burgundy gown that complemented Washington's pristine uniform, whom he had never seen before, but from just the way she carried herself and just how adoring and _protective_ Washington was around her, was the general's wife. This was Mrs. Washington.

He had heard that Mrs. Washington's had briefly stayed at Morristown during the wintering months, but that had been after he, Ben, had been sent to Boston. Thus this was the first time he had seen his commander's wife in person, and with all the good that he had heard about her and what she did for the men and their commander while at camp, he could scarcely believe it. Just the presence that she exuded while arm-in-arm with her husband was powerful. Ben didn't know what was causing it, but he felt compelled to sketch a bow towards her, just as the other three officers around him did the same.

“Alexander, John, Gilbert,” Mrs. Washington greeted warmly, “and...”

“Major Benjamin Tallmadge,” Washington introduced him, “one of my officers of vital importance to this war.” Ben held himself from rocking back on his heels at just how calm, relaxed, and _happy_ his commander looked, never mind the high complement that he had just been paid. Gone were the the bleak eyes, the storm clouds that he had seen, and the ever present undercurrent of worry that seemed to plague his commander. Wonders of wonders, Mrs. Washington seemed to take years off of his commander, even if it were just for this fete.

“Ah,” Mrs. Washington said, smiling. “It is a pleasure to see all of you here. I do hope that you will enjoy this soiree.”

“Yes, ma'am, we most definitely will,” Hamilton answered for all of them as moments later, their commander and his wife swept off to mingle in with the other guests.

“Um,” he couldn't help but say as soon as the Washingtons were out of earshot, “She's... um, she's definitely...”

He felt a sympathetic pat on his back as he glanced over at Laurens who merely grinned and continued to pat his back, saying, “Yes, she does have that effect on all of us. Behind our great commander is his equally great wife, and without her, our commander would not be the man he is today.”

“But,” Hamilton said, slapping him on the back, “time is wasting, and those lovely women are still staring at you, Major. It's time to get to work and perhaps, find each of ourselves a wife just like our commander did.”

* * *

_Later in the night..._

 

Whether it was the fact that he had stumbled through his introduction to General Arnold, much to the chagrin of both himself and Shippen, who had entered the fete arm-in-arm with the great general and gave him an utterly puzzled look for his benefit, or the fact that he only engaged in one dance just to satisfy the unwritten social requirement; he found himself engaged in a lot more small talk than he had during the Philadelphia soiree. What he had learned from the various merchants, politicians, and the wealthy was interesting, but none had stood out in terms of mannerisms. His observations of their appearance only went so far as well – he could not tell if they were wearing full facial masks of the sort – of what he remembered Director Andre wearing and pulling off just before he had been rendered unconscious by whatever had been put in his claret at Judge Shippen's house that particular night in December.

Now though, as he walked outside into the cool air of a starry autumn night, taking a deep breath of fresh air glad to be rid of the stuffiness of the tobacco and smoke-filled hall, he stopped and stared out into the harbor that glittered under the half-moonlight. There were a few other people here in the gardens that overlooked the harbor, two of them dressed in what he could only discern as the distinctly elaborate but firmly European uniform of Russia's military. Either escorts or guardsmen of their guest of honor, most likely taking a quick rotational break before they needed to return to protect their charge. They paid him no attention and he deigned to not approach the two foreigners, knowing that he could not speak French or Russian and therefore, would not be able to even communicate with the two.

He had seen his agents in and among the crowds within the hall, and true to the plan, Archibald James was the one closest to the Adams family, fielding questions and inquiries from curious politicians and the like about young Nabby and the other children of the Adams family's education. The schoolmaster looked slightly out of place with his incredibly plain but neat-looking three-piece, but he had to give Archibald credit for not faltering under such immense pressure from what he was tasked with and from the social mores that were employed at such an event.

He occasionally saw Lottie flitting in and among the young women of note who attended the party, but last he had seen her, she was sitting with Nabby and a few of their friends at a table, tired and trying to recover in dignity from the festivities. Young David was also seemingly sleeping on a chair, head pillowed on his sister's lap. It seemed that whatever lesson that Sackett had been teaching the young woman when he had run into the three of them was being put to good use, for he noticed that there was no nervousness in her countenance and that her sharp eyes were constantly taking in the room.

Mr. Sackett and his wife were among the people who were crowded around the guest of honor at the fete – Grigory Potemkin. He wasn't sure if the keen interest he had seen on Mr. Sackett's face was entirely feigned, for there was a familiar gleam in his mentor's eyes. When this war ended, and if they were all still alive by then, he couldn't help but wonder if Mr. Sackett and his family would return to Europe – perhaps under the good graces of either France or Russia. A small pang of sadness had wormed its way into his heart as he thought about that – but he had shaken it loose – they still had a war and their freedom to win first.

As for his other agents, he had only caught a glimpse of Caleb and it was only through the temporary doors that had been erected to provide a small kitchen of sorts. His friend was in that area, seemingly helping the hired cooks with their work. Though he wished that Caleb had agreed to shave his beard so that he could have his friend among those on the main floor, it seemed that his friend was having a grand old time. There was no doubt in his mind that Caleb was also probably swiping ales and the like on the side from the cooking staff on the side, but he did not let the thought linger.

Watchman Ethan Archer was currently somewhere among the crowds, having been unexpectedly popular among the unattached women who attended the fete. His handsome, rugged-looking face was known to the women, along with what he had done in his part in apprehending Major Smith over the winter, but it was through the incredibly clever (and rather devious in Ben's opinion) manipulation of Mrs. Sackett giving temporary custody of young David earlier in the night over to the watchman for a moment that solidified the watchman's surprising popularity. The Sacketts had not even disappeared for five minutes, most likely to refresh themselves, when they returned to find a crowd of admiring women of all ages surrounding the watchman and their son.

Ben had wisely stayed far and away from that delightful incident, but it was footsteps approaching from behind that shook him out of his reverie as he turned to see two people approach. “Agent de Francy, Agent Sackett,” he quietly greeted, doing his best to keep the spark of jealousy he felt from rising and turning into a frown upon his face.

The two were walking arm-in-arm towards him, and though Natalie had told him that nothing had happened between her and the French Intelligence agent while they were traveling together, the physical actions, even the looks that he had seen de Francy give Natalie were saying otherwise. He trusted Natalie's words, having seen her keep an indifferent air about her whenever de Francy was present and did not even physically or verbally respond to the Frenchman unless it was necessary. But right now, whether it was because of their covers, or the fact that it was somewhat known that Natalie, under her guise as a relation to the Sackett family who had gone to Europe to help her 'uncle' in his business and left with de Francy, the two were rather close to each other.

“Major Tallmadge,” de Francy said, “if you would allow me to leave Lady Sackett here with you for a debrief while I attend to some matters with my Russian compatriots.”

“Please,” he managed to say, nodding in a stiff manner before the Frenchman departed, leaving the two of them alone, but surprising him by approaching the two Russian guardsmen who were standing a bit ways away.

“Empress Catherine has her own set of spies and the like, who traveled with Potemkin to here. They act as his bodyguard, but they're also reporting back to her with the unaltered news of the war,” Natalie supplied. “Thevenau and I discovered this when one of her spies was trying to inquire about my contacting the Third Section. We... have a mutually beneficial informational exchange and relationship with the Empress' agents, but that is mostly limited to the here and now of the era, not the future.”

“Thevenau,” he couldn't help but state as he stared at her, valiantly holding back all that he wanted to say and do, propriety and covers be damned.

“He's a good man, Ben,” she said, her tone giving him no indication of what she felt with regards to his one word statement.

“I know,” he answered, briefly closing his eyes as he grimaced at just how deep the roots of jealousy had dug into him. He was better than this, he had to be. He knew that with his father watching from Heaven that even he would not approve of what such a green-eyed monster and temptation was doing to him. “I... I have no excuse for my behavior as of late,” he said after a moment, opening his eyes and focused them back on her.

“Neither does he,” she said. “He's only doing this because he knows that he can make you jealous. He knows and understands how difficult it is for any spy, especially someone in your position, to maintain personal and private relationships. It's nearly the same thing that Anatoly Volkov, my trainer while I was in the Russian Secret Service, did when I returned to the motherland following my first year at Yale. Benji traveled with me at that time and like you, he had the same reaction towards Volkov as you are having now with de Francy. He also had a similar predicament as you are facing now. Because we cannot risk fracturing the alliance with France now, so Benji could not risk an international incident by doing something accidental and hurtful to Tsarina Alexandra's brother back then. It's a bullying tactic that is much wiser to be ignored than engaged in as I have found out both times.”

“Hold on a moment... Agent Volkov is your Russian leader's brother?” he asked, quite stunned at the revelation. At her silent nod of affirmation, he couldn't help but ask, “How? How did a prince become Lieutenant General Washington's bodyguard?”

“Because its the law of the land, Major,” a familiar voice, but with a completely different inflection, tone, and accent spoke up from the right side of Ben.

Turning, he didn't even hear the footsteps on the ground, but saw the faintly illuminated outline of the man who looked like his dead father, but was not and instead related to him via descendants, approach. “Command,” the simple, curt acknowledgment of the man's official title and designation from Natalie towards the commander of the Third Section answered the interruption.

“Minimum three years of military or government-related service for every citizen of Russia once they reach the age of majority, which in our era, is fifteen,” Alton-Tallmadge answered, stopping before the two, dressed in a variation of the same uniform that Potemkin and his bodyguards were wearing. “Some choose to continue to serve after their term has expired.”

“I thought you and your men were patrolling the rooftops, sir. Out of sight,” he coolly answered, keeping his voice as steady as possible, ignoring what he knew to be yet another revelation that was designed to shock him. Despite the physical similarities to his father, the way the man carried and held himself, along with his mannerisms and lack of sympathy for almost everything thus far, Ben found himself really disliking the man. He could not fathom how one could be so cold and so heartless as to not even shed a tear or care about the fact that his own wife was still alive but in enemy hands. How had Samantha grown up with such a father?

“Yes, but I find it more useful to occasionally come down from the eagle's nest and see how the plebeians are doing,” Alton-Tallmadge answered, though the tone and arrogance that was carried in his words caused Ben to bristle. “I see that Director Andre has not shown up as you hoped he would.”

The indignant words were at the tip of his tongue, but he managed to stop himself from saying them, realizing that the man's words were only designed to get a rise out of him, to make him lose control, to show in the eyes of this arrogant man from the future that he and his agents were not fit to carry out their duties. To what end, he didn't know and didn't care, but he would not lose command of the Culper-Culpeper Ring or of the duties he owed to Washington as Head of Intelligence – not to some petty thing such as this.

Instead, he gave the man a thin smile, saying, “He may not be, but his agents most likely are. Even if they are not, British High Command will have already heard of this alliance and they will be waiting for the Continental Army with a force to match come spring. It is best we be prepared for something of that magnitude.”

“And where, Major,” the man said, “might that battle happen--”

The first explosion within the harbor was a colorful, bright one that seemed utterly harmless and more like fireworks than anything else to the untrained eye. However, the fact that _both_ Natalie and Alton-Tallmadge's expressions were anything but delightful and were instead, wrapped in horror and surprise told Ben that it was not fireworks that had been sent up and exploded in the harbor. It was the second explosion that happened further away at sea but still clearly visible that curious people who had heard the first explosion had started to stream out of the hall and elsewhere.

“Celebratory fireworks, Benny-boy?” he heard Caleb question as the footsteps of his friend running up from behind and stopped by his side, just as de Francy and the two Russians also came over. “Didn't know we had any.”

“That's either the _Winter_ or _Star_ being destroyed,” Alton-Tallmadge said at the same time. “That second one... most likely one of the Britannian submarines being destroyed by whichever submarine of ours is left alive...”

“Caleb, binoculars!” Ben immediately demanded, as the distant explosions continued. Caleb handed the object over and he immediately peered through it, seeing into the harbor. What greeted is view sent chills down his spine as he lowered the advanced spyglass. He swallowed, feeling a great lump in his throat as he muttered, “Now we know why there were so many conflicting reports being sent from all over the region and why they bolstered footholds in New Jersey and Pennsylvania. It was all a feint, and that's why we haven't heard anything from Director Andre and had minimal Britannian forces in Rhode Island. They were all a distraction to tie up Lieutenant General Washington and her forces.”

He absently handed the binoculars over to Alton-Tallmadge, saying, “Twenty ships, all of them thirty-six gun or higher coming towards the harbor. British colors.”

“Britannia was able to take St. Petersburg last October in the same manner before we were transported,” the man stated while peering through the binoculars, with genuine horror coloring the tone of his voice. “It's the Bloody October all over again.”

Unease churned in his stomach, but he vowed not to give into the fear and despair at what was just said. Instead, he shoved all thoughts of hindsight and regret to the side and stated, “Natalie and de Francy, notify General Washington and the others. Begin evacuating all civilians and watch out for the assassins. They _will_ take advantage of the chaos. Alton-Tallmadge, gather your people and help them. Caleb, get to the 2 nd Light-Legions as fast as you can and bring all of them here in full armament. Boston cannot and will not fall.”

 

~*~*~*~

 


	26. Enemy At The Gates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With a special appearance by select members of the Boston Mechanics (spy ring operating in Boston during the 1775 occupation)!

**Chapter 26: Enemy At The Gates**

 

_Boston, Beacon Hill district..._

 

“Here and here,” Ben stated, pointing to specific areas within the detailed map of the city's streets before taking a step back as the various commanders peered over to see where he had pointed to in the flickering candlelit room.

The walls and floor of Washington's temporary residence shook again as cannonades from the near by fortifications were being fired upon by the British ships. For every volley the fortifications received, they were answered with a thunderous report. So far, the answering volleys were not faltering but as the fiery night eventually yielded to the rising sun and back into the bloody night, all in this particular room knew that those soldiers at the fortifications would not be able to sustain their continuous assault against the ships for long.

It had taken a little over four hours for the entirety of the 2nd Light-Legions to arrive at Boston, but in those four hours of panicked evacuations and the mustering of troops from the militia that surrounded the city, the British did the unthinkable. In addition to firing upon the fortifications that protected the harbor and city, they started to fire upon civilian buildings. The whistling of cannonade flying through the air before lodging themselves into docks warehouses seemingly fell silent for one blessed moment before a thunderous explosion tore the structures apart piece by piece and set nearby houses on fire.

No one knew what types of cannons were causing such devastation, but even in the face of such horror, it seemed that none of the ships were able to get closer than when Ben had initially sighted them. They could only surmise that because of the four enormous explosions that happened beneath the harbor, the sunken allied submersibles _Ember of Winter_ , _White Star_ , and the two Britannian ones had damned up the harbor and made it too shallow for the ships to enter the bay. That was their only saving grace from being completely overrun by enemy forces at the moment. That was also how they were currently still able to hold from the Beacon Hill area northwards through the west end and past the Charles River. The east side of Boston was controlled by the enemy.

Ben briefly glanced up at the grandfather clock that was situated in this room – it was six in the morning, and though the sky was starting to wane towards light he did not know of the conditions outside of the house after having been sequestered in here for the past few hours. They were holding position, but a part of the city was on fire, and in that chaos, British troops had begun rowing their men and equipment into the city, even as they were being assaulted from the still Continental and militia occupied forts.

Militiamen stationed in and around the city who had managed to survive the night, along with the thirty members of the Third Section held guard in the areas the Continental Army still controlled. Members of the 2nd Light-Legions were shoring up defensive positions, rendering treatment to those injured, and helping with the evacuation of civilians to beyond Lexington, Quincy, and other nearby towns and villages. The three snipers had made their attempts to kill prominent members of Congress and of the Adams family during the initial evacuation, but thanks to the vigilance of both the Third Section and the Boston-based Culper agents, not one of those targeted had died yet.

“Are you sure?” Colonel Rutherford, commander of Boston's militia asked.

“Yes,” Ben nodded. “If they do happen to find viable entrances and clear the smuggling tunnels, they'll have the advantage over us. However, if _we_ clear them--”

“Then we can potentially take back the waterfront,” Rutherford finished.

“My men should be here by nightfall, General Washington,” Potemkin spoke up, his accent incredibly thick and words nearly incomprehensible to him.

Fortunately, it seemed that Washington understood the man and nodded, saying, “It will take time to clear the tunnels for both us and them, but for now our main priority will be to ensure that the fortifications and their cannons do not fall to the British soldiers. General Arnold, last you, Sullivan, and Scott passed through Springfield with your armies, how many were settled to winter there?”

“About 7,000, sir,” Arnold answered. “The rest either were returned to Morristown or to Saratoga.”

“Send for 4,000 men,” Washington said. “We cannot leave Springfield undefended, not after the British push into western Connecticut and Massachu--” There was an urgent knock on the door, cutting off whatever else their commander was about to say. It was standing protocol that no one disturb the meeting thus far unless it was an extremely dire situation that was worse than what they were currently facing, for Washington had not wanted their planning to be disturbed by lesser matters. “Enter,” their commander barked.

It was surprisingly Hamilton, who opened the door, saying, “Apologies, Your Excellency, but survivors from the submersible explosions have been found about two hours ago near the north docks. They are all being treated by surgeons, but their ranking officer insisted on speaking with you.”

The door was opened a bit further and to Ben and all of the others in the room's surprise, Commander Creighton walked into the room, hair still wet, but wearing colonial-era clothes instead of the unusual uniform that those of the future US Navy wore. However, the man was walking with a pronounced limp, and he was also covered from head to toe in various swathes of bandages, some still freshly bleeding. There was, however, a decidedly dark, angry, and haunted look in his eyes.

Ben took a quick glance over at his commander, noting that there was a rather unreadable look on Washington's face, before returning to Creighton's interruption. Just as Hamilton left and close the door, Washington said, “Commander Creighton, please accept my condolences on the loss of the crews and of both the _Ember of Winter_ and the _White Star_.”

“Accepted and thank you, General Washington,” Creighton answered in a short tone, “but that is not why I'm here. The British ships are being led by the _Tonnant_ , which was their flagship during the War of 1812 on the Chesapeake Bay. She and others, however, are armed with Paixhans guns, cannons which use explosive shells and were developed by the French in late 1822.”

“Britannian's work then,” Washington stated, frowning. “Short of the letter that I will be sending to the commander of this British invasion force condemning his brutish methods, do you know of any way to silence such guns?”

The naval intelligence officer considered the question for a moment before saying, “Perhaps. I will need additional men, whaleboats, and a good distraction to make the British look the other way, sir.”

“Sir, if I may,” Ben spoke up, a plan forming in his mind as he spoke. With a nod from Washington, he stepped back up to the table and pointed to a particular area on the north end of the city, right across the Charles River, at Charlestown. “We know that the British forces have already taken the north end of the city here and that they're most likely going to assault the fortifications at this point to silence our guns. If you allow me to take some of my men, we can set an ambush for them here and keep them occupied. I know that Lieutenant Brewster and a few other men of my unit have had experience with whaling boats and the like. They can assist Commander Creighton.”

“General Arnold,” Washington said after a moment's pause, “Send for 4,000 men from Springfield. Once the guns are silenced, we shall be moving to take back the city. Colonel Rutherford, we'll need every able man to shore up the lines that we have in the city and continue to evacuate civilians while this assault is underway. Major, please inform our mutual friends of the plan and see to it that certain misinformation is detailed to the British. A viable point for us to assault is through this underground network of tunnels, and thus we will need to be visibly seen moving explosives.”

“Perhaps the gales off of the Rhode Island and cape shores will be gone in a few days time then,” Lafayette said. “I shall send word to Comte d'Estaing of this assault.”

“Please do so,” their commander nodded. Looking back up at Creighton, Washington then asked, “Is there anything your people need besides whaleboats and what I can only assume, weapons?” Ben did not miss the quick look that his commander had given him when he specifically mentioned 'weapons'.

“A good cover and fog of night or early dawn, sir,” Creighton stated. “We had it this morning, and with the weather the way it is, it may be the same in the coming days. My people will be ready.”

“Good, then we shall adjourn this meeting until dusk.”

There was a slight clatter of noise from all of them stepping away, though Potemkin and Rutherford followed Washington out of the room, inquiring about things that Ben could only assume pertained to the sudden appearance of Commander Creighton. He did catch the rather pinched look on Arnold's expression for a brief moment as the general also left, but could not make anything of the expression other than assuming that it was related to the dependency of foreign aid in their cause for freedom. As for Lafayette, the French commander and aide to Washington managed to catch both him and Creighton before either of them could leave.

“Commander and Major,” Lafayette politely said, “I believe that there is a mutual acquaintance of yours, especially yours, Major Tallmadge, who may be able to provide or procure weapons of a most unique type to assist you in this assault. A Monsieur Nathaniel Sackett?”

“But he left the barn and all of its weaponry back in Morristown,” he answered.

“One of my ships was asked to move a certain object from the General's camp that was able to hold a man, shaped like an ale barrel, just after our victory at Newport,” Lafayette said. “This was moved to Boston not long ago, though I know not where it was stored.”

“The Turtle?” Creighton whispered in surprise.

“You know of it, sir?” Ben questioned but realized that it was the most idiotic question he could ask of a naval officer, an intelligence operative no less, who most likely already knew of what the Continental Army had and did not have in their arsenal.

Creighton ignored his question and instead said, “Do you know where Mr. Sackett currently is?”

“No, but perhaps Alexander does,” Lafayette said. “I shall come with you to see what is available, if you would permit me. I wish to partake and assist you in this assault, monsieurs. Thevenau will be able to relay the necessary information down to the fleet.”

Despite the numerous injuries that Creighton had sustained, he managed to not look quite angry for a moment as Ben caught the officer's glance over at him. He had control over this particular part of the operation, and thus he was the one who decided what needed to be done. If Washington was not opposed to Lafayette assisting them, then he would accept the help – Lafayette and his Musketeers had been a tremendous help during the Haddonfield battle, and thus knew how to work with the 2nd Light-Legions, which meant that he would be able to free more men for Caleb to take with him on the assault on the ships.

“We welcome any assistance you can provide, sir,” Ben answered before gesturing for the two officers to lead the way out.

On their way out, they passed by many people, one of whom was the French Intelligence officer. Pausing for a moment as Lafayette relayed the information, Ben quietly asked Creighton, “Sir, pardon my presumption, but how injured are your men and women who survived?”

“One or two of them have sustained a little graver injuries, but that is because the twenty of us were on the surface in boats, conducting some reconnaissance when the _Winter_ and _Star_ were set upon. None from those two submarines nor the two Britannian ones survived. Do not worry. We will be able to conduct the assault.”

“Your wife,” he realized with horror, “My sympathies for your loss of her, your crew, and those of the _White Star_.”

“Thank you,” Creighton said in a thick voice, closing his eyes for a brief moment before opening them again. “She did her duty and they took out two of Britannian's aces up their sleeves. No commander could ask for more of a sacrifice than that, and though I mourn their loss again, I know that neither she nor her crew would want any of us to linger on that thought of what we could have done to prevent this. All we can do now is to protect what we have left.”

“Sir,” he began, but fell silent as Creighton shook his head.

“Don't worry Major, I'm not going to do anything rash. I won't risk the lives of ancestors just for petty revenge.”

“Ah Alexander,” Lafayette's youthful voice interrupted anything else that Ben was going to say as he saw de Francy hurry out of the residence, just as Hamilton was crossing the foyer from one room to another. The aide stopped and approached them. “Do you happen to know where Monsieur Sackett is?”

“Yes, if you would please follow me?” Hamilton said, gesturing slightly as they exited the house and into the cool autumn morning that still had some lingering fog floating about.

The smell of smoke was thick in the air, but the tolling of the church bells for fire brigades had seemed to cease. Either the fires were successfully put out, or those who had tried to put them out had given up and let it take its course to burn out whatever it could of the section of the city near the docks. Civilians and militiamen milled about, some hurrying to elsewhere, others still in a daze and trying to help each other cope with the violence that had descended upon their city last night. Some were still dressed in their finery from the party, others had torn parts of their clothes to make bandages for those who had been injured.

More than a few that they passed stared at the four of them as they walked on by, eyes pleading for answers, for anything really, to give them hope. Ben could not even offer a smile of reassurance to those he passed, for he knew that he too was trying to comprehend how such an ambush could have taken place. Despite the non-interference rule that Creighton and the crews of the submersibles adhered to, surely they would have warned about such an impending attack. Surely de Francy, Natalie, or even General Potemkin would have seen twenty British ships sailing out from Europe, even if under the guise of fighting whatever war had gripped the other side of the Atlantic. They had no warning, nothing to suggest this attack, and though they held the city, even with the 2nd Light-Legions present, twenty ships and the risk of killing more ancestors of the sort, even if displaced from time by fifty years or so, was something that none of them wanted to risk, especially with their European allies present. He had no answers to offer to Washington, and it made him frustrated – all he could do was try to offer any battle plan ideas and intelligence he knew of the city through his time here and through his agents native to the city.

The four of them entered the narrow way into First Church, which had been converted to one of the many areas where surgeons, doctors, and even apprentices with some medical training were trying to save lives. The front of the church was crowded with civilians huddled together for warmth and for comfort. Inside was a different story as the groaning noise of the injured filled the air, with men and women assisting the surgeons and doctors hurrying about, fetching water, bandages, cleaning instruments, and the like. Pews had been shoved to the side to make room for cots. However, compared to the sight at another area in the city that Ben had seen prior to being sequestered away for the briefing with Washington, it was much calmer here, with only the groans of pain coming from those injured who had moved and affected their wounds. Most of the surgery performed to save lives were more of the shrapnel nature – pulling out splinters of wood and other things that had been embedded in legs, arms, backs, and other places. The most crucial of surgeries was taking place near the pulpit.

Hamilton didn't venture deep into the church though, and only turned towards the right to start making his way through some lightly injured civilians and non-injured ones who were huddled here only to seek comfort within the church. However, as Ben and the others stopped at the entrance, not wanting to get more entangled in the crowded place, he spotted a familiar face lying on one of the cots. His heart fell, it was Archibald James, and it looked like he had had one of his legs amputated.

He wanted to go over to find out what had happened to his former classmate, but Archibald looked so pale and still that it was only the minute movement of his chest under the woolen covers that covered him that told Ben that he was still alive. He didn't move from where he was standing, but instead closed his eyes for a moment. He had specifically told his agents not to engage in any risky behavior during the evacuation, not only for those they needed to protect, but he also did not want to lose the eyes and ears they had in and around the city. He could only imagine what the Quaker schoolmaster had done that warranted him loosing a leg, was well worth the risk.

The shuffling of feet and the appearance of Hamilton with Sackett following him caught his attention, but to his surprise, there were three other men following Sackett – all unfamiliar to him. Raising a questioning eyebrow, he saw Sackett merely gesture for them to take the discussion outside. As he turned and left with the others, he caught a glimpse of the Adams family helping tend to the wounded. The rest of the Sackett family was near them as well, but there was no sign of Natalie.

He would have to ask his mentor later as to Natalie's whereabouts, for he hoped that the woman he loved was not currently behind enemy lines, not when he needed her to relay a solid plan to wherever the commander of the Third Section was to continue to defend the city without the presence of the 2nd Light-Legions. Since the initial sighting and orders given to Alton-Tallmadge to help with the evacuation and protection of the people, he had not seen him at all, even while walking towards First Church. In fact, he could not see a sign of any member of the Third Section though he had a feeling that eyes from the rooftops were always upon him and everyone else walking on the streets.

Outside and near a tree that had not yet completely turned into a golden yellow color, away from prying ears, Sackett began by saying, “Major Tallmadge, Colonel Hamilton, General Lafayette, and Commander Creighton, may I introduce these fine gentlemen to you. They are: James Lovell, a schoolmaster much in the same discipline as our Quaker. John Carnes, who now works ciphers for Congress and was up here as a guest of the Congressional entourage for our Russian allies. Finally, William Dawes, who worked with Mr. Revere to warn of how the British were going to come by either land or sea. Samuel Adams introduced these men to me after I overheard him discussing with these men about resurrecting the intelligence network that Boston operated with during their first occupation.”

Sackett paused for a moment before gesturing to Ben and the others, saying, “Sirs, Colonel Hamilton and General Lafayette aides of General Washington and in the know of this espionage and intelligence business. You may be confident that your names will not be revealed beyond this gathered cabal and General Washington. Commander Creighton is of the Naval Intelligence discipline. Major Tallmadge is Head of Intelligence and chief of our Continental Army spies within the city. Perhaps it might be prudent for us to combine our resources to take Boston back?”

“It is an excellent idea, Mr. Sackett,” Ben spoke up, surprised that the rumored network of spies that had operated in Boston during the 1775 occupation was still present, though in a smaller fashion. He had thought that because such a business was frowned upon, even in social circles, that those spies who had participated in their patriotic duty would go on to different things. It seemed that only Carnes was the only one who continued his work, albeit in a more oblique manner and just only managed to be caught up in such a mess at the wrong place at the wrong time.

There were nods from the others, though Hamilton was a little more vocal in agreement, as was Carnes. Seeing that they were all in agreement, he continued, saying, “We plan to ambush the British at a certain area within the city, but we need rumors of an assault happening from the recently sealed smuggling tunnels near the miller's wharf and baker's shop on Broad Street to turn the British from our true purpose. If you three are willing, I need you to go behind enemy lines and spread the rumor. One of my spies was recently wounded, so do not take any unnecessary risks with this rumor. All we need is to inform them of the feigned assault.”

“We can do that, sir,” Dawes said after a moment, glancing over at his companions who nodded. “How soon is this happening?”

“If the weather holds and another fog rolls in tonight, then perhaps as early as that. Find a watchman by the name of Ethan Archer and he will assist you in getting behind enemy lines,” he told them.

“Last I've seen of him, he is near the fortifications at the Beacon Hill tavern,” Sackett said.

“Will do sirs,” Dawes answered. “We'll also try to get a lay of the land while there.” The three of them knuckled their foreheads before dashing off.

When they were finally out of earshot, Sackett said in a low tone, “I hear that a possible ambush is being planned on those ships in the bay?”

“Do you have the Turtle?” Ben asked, not even bothering to beat around the bush, since time was of the essence.

“Do you have a volunteer, Major?” Sackett asked, owlishly blinking at him. “Because it can only seat one person.”

“I'll pilot, erm, row...operate that thing,” Creighton said.

The rather evaluating look that Sackett gave the naval intelligence officer was quite critical, as he answered, “No. Too injured. What's your plan for it, Major?”

“Well, we're going to have to find Caleb first, because I think he's going to be the one volunteering for it. Do you know where he currently is?”

Just as Sackett shook his head, the shouts of a familiar voice saying, “Major Tallmadge! Major Tallmadge!” was heard. They stopped as they saw Laurens push through the crowds and stop before them, flushed slightly from running from where he had been. “Sirs,” the young aide said, “We just got word from peripheral scouts across the river that Charlestown and its fortifications have been taken.”

“Ah, is that why it has been silent since we entered the church?” Lafayette questioned, though it sounded more like a statement. “And here I thought it was because of the fog and the need to not waste gunpowder. Changes the plans, no?”

Ben shook his head, saying, “It doesn't change it as much as I believe it will, sir, though we'll need to modify it.”

“Alexander, Gilbert, I hate to take you away from whatever dastardly schemes you're planning with the Major here, but the General requests our presences,” Laurens said as a slightly regretful look passed across his expression for a brief moment.

“I'll send one of my men to inform both of you of the plan once we solidify it, sirs,” he said in a reassuring tone, knowing that of the two, Lafayette's Musketeers would be useful for whatever they needed done to continue their defense of the city or to shore up flanks for their attack. “But before you leave, Colonel Laurens, do you happen to know where Lieutenant Brewster is?”

“Last I saw, he was on the south side, near the checkpoint,” Laurens said.

“Thank you,” he answered and moments later, the three aides parted while Ben and the others headed towards the southern checkpoint.

Caleb was indeed near the checkpoint, though he and others of the 2nd Light-Legions were wrangling the robotic horses into some semblance of an organization to charge and distribute power to each. However, as soon as Ben explained the initial plan to his friend, a rather wicked-looking gleam appeared in Caleb's eyes and he enthusiastically joined the three of them to go pick up the Turtle. It was also then that Sackett mentioned that perhaps there were some additional weapons available for their usage, which caused the grin on Caleb's face to widen before he barked in laughter at Creighton's rather exasperated shake of his head.

However, the four of them spoke little to each other as they wound their way through the back alleys of the city until the buildings started to taper off into the more greenery area. The crowds they wove around, however, looked extremely anxious with some openly crying or consoling each other, others with haunted looks. Eventually, though they arrived at a rather small, rickety-looking one-room storehouse that was situated in a very building-crowded area near the Commons.

Ben looked around and to his surprise, there was not a soul in any of the alleyways surrounding this storehouse, though the awful smell that surrounded this place was perhaps contributing to the area being bereft of people. However, the cause for the lack of a population around was quickly answered when Sackett said, “It's an illusionary projection taken from a contraption within Natalie's donkey that is protecting this particular place from prying eyes, coupled with the smell of rotten fish and dead animals that we've harvested over the course of a month.”

“God Sackett, I've smelled all sorts of shite and dead whales in my day, but this is the worse thing that I've come across,” Caleb stated.

“We?” Ben questioned at the same time.

Sackett gave both of them an indecipherable look before taking out a small key from within a vest pocket. Unlocking the door, they entered and as soon as the door closed, plunging them into relative dimness that was only alleviated by a single, fogged window. There was a musty smell within the storehouse, but the rotten scent from outside was gone. However, Sackett was not yet done and waved his hands for them to stay away from the center as he lifted several loose planks of wood up from the floor and placed them to the side.

“Huh,” the man said as soon as the dust from the moved planks settled. Ben was not the only one to peer down at the uncovered floor to find that a cellar door that had been hidden underneath the floor. However, there were some iron chains and a strong lock that had been tossed to the side.

He was not the only one to pull out his pistol as Caleb did the same, but a quick shake of Sackett's head in the negative caused him to frown slightly as the man said, “There's only one other person who has the key to the place and helped me arrange and move all the necessary equipment from Morristown to here in the past few weeks. You need not worry.”

“Natalie?” he guessed, as he holstered his pistol just as Caleb did the same.

His question was not answered as Sackett crouched down. Opening the cellar doors, they were rewarded with unnaturally bright light shining from deep within the cellar that looked more like a smuggling tunnel than a proper cellar. Ben, Caleb, and Creighton followed Sackett down the steps and into the tunnel without question.

As soon as Sackett had rearranged the floor to hide the cellar door and closed it as well, the five of them made their way further in. The way the entire tunnel looked was eerily similar to what he remembered the smuggling tunnels looking like except more illuminated by various strips of light that waxed and waned wherever they walked. Fascination at such marvel was evident on Caleb's face, as if he were a gleeful child again. The strips of light that illuminated the place reminded him of what Abe, or rather, Samantha, had stated in her report of what the future-Simcoe's underground New York City facility was like.

At the end of the tunnel, Sackett opened a wooden door and what greeted them was an enormous cavern that was at least the width and length of the schoolhouse near Faneuil Hall. Strips of light seemed to be tied together around the room by string, though there were a few bunches of candles burning merrily in clusters on tables. What was the most fascinating portion of this cavernous place was the fact that there were many wooden tables that had so many familiar-looking objects, beakers, glass, and even Jefferson's polygraph machine on one of the tables that he could have sworn he was looking at a replica of Sackett's barn in Morristown – except only larger.

In one of the corner was someone dressed in a familiar-looking mottled-green-black-brown uniform, sitting hunched over at a table and near what looked to be a donkey with red eyes and long black ropes of the sort sticking out of its body. Even without the usual dressage that she wore as her colonial disguise, Ben knew that the woman working at the table next to her donkey was Natalie.

Before he could say a word, it was Natalie who spoke up, still sitting at the table, saying, “You can look, but don't you dare touch anything, Brewster.”

“Aw,” Caleb groused, though it was a jest as a smile lit up his face. “Can't even trust your friends to be careful with your creations? And here I thought I was your second favorite person after Benny-boy here.”

“Fifth favorite,” Natalie answered, placing whatever she had been working on down and turning to face them. “You don't rank as high as my donkey...” she trailed off just as Ben noticed that her eyes were no longer focused on them, but on Creighton who stood a little behind the three of them. “Sir!”

“Agent,” Creighton answered, though his tone and inflection did not give any indication of what he felt. “I'm glad to see you're doing much better than last I saw you.”

“Sir...” she began, “the _Winter_... the _Star_... I'm so sorry.”

The naval intelligence officer nodded, silent for a few moments before briskly saying, “But that is not our point here. Mr. Sackett, I believe that you have the Turtle in storage here? Might these other weapons that you have lying about be ready for usage?”

“Natalie?” Sackett asked.

“Most of them are,” she answered, standing up and approaching a long table of various flintlock weaponry that had been modified quite heavily. “Since the success of the prototype RPG that was used during the taking of the Kingstown fortification, Major Jefferson and I have been trying to find ways to extend the life of our limited supplies for the laser rifles and pistols. Frankly, sirs, given the inventory that was last taken after our victory at Newport, and the intelligence we've gathered thus far, we don't have enough firepower to even take Westpoint much less New York City. What ever assault is being planned to take Boston back will drain our resources from the future even further. We're going to be completely dependent on flintlocks by this time next year.”

“I assume that Lieutenant General Washington has been informed of this development?” Creighton asked.

“Yes, sir,” she answered in a crisp tone. “The last dispatch and update was sent when Carrie took the Rhode Island reports with her.”

“If I may?” Ben gently interrupted, managing to keep his surprise at such disheartening news from coloring his tone. The fact that he now knew what Natalie had been doing since she had returned from Europe gave him hope, but at the same time, it worried him. The Continental Army had limited resources as well, and raiding parties ordered by Washington to take supplies from smugglers and the like yielded only so much. If the resources that powered the laser rifles and pistols were starting to run low, then Washington's dependency on help from the future-people was growing limited day by day. Judging from the skirmishes that engaged Lieutenant General Washington in New Jersey and Pennsylvania, it seemed that Britannia was also trying to force an arms race as well – both sides knew that each had limited resources.

They had to win Boston with little to no dependency on the advanced weapons, and thus as soon as Natalie nodded, he said, “We just received word that the fortifications at Charlestown has been taken. The Turtle was to be our way into the ships, but we'll also need the grenade launchers that were developed to assault Charlestown's fortification.”

“Two-pronged attack then?” she asked.

“More like our assault on Charlestown will be a distraction along with Caleb's commandeering of the Turtle onto one of the ships. Creighton will be leading the follow up by whaleboats for the actual assault. If we confuse them enough, they'll not know who is firing from where.”

“I'll even set a ship on fire, providing that you still have those barrels of gunpowder strapped to the Turtle,” Caleb chimed in, grinning like a madman.

“Oh, Jefferson may have added a little more than just gunpowder to the Turtle...” Natalie said, adopting an innocent look that was quickly turned into a brief smile with Caleb's bark of laughter.

Ben did not miss the exasperated shake of Sackett's head as Natalie headed over towards the furthest corner of the place where there were a numerous amount of things that were covered under cloth tarps and the like. Curious, he followed Caleb's rather gleeful skipping steps, hearing the quiet sigh of defeat from Creighton himself. Despite the seriousness of the situation, he couldn't help but smile slightly – it heartened him to know that even in the face of such devastation that had been rendered thus far in the war, the toll that it had taken on all of them had not disheartened all of them yet.

The largest of the tarps covering the various things in the corner was unveiled and Caleb's appreciative whistle echoed through the area. Ben could not help but nod in appreciation and surprise at what exactly had been done to the Turtle. While it still looked generally the same as he had first seen it with a peek under the covering, there were barrels of gunpowder strapped in bundles of three around it. However, those barrels had also been coated with a tar-like sheen and several smaller, spherical iron objects had been attached to the clusters.

“Who designed and built this?” he couldn't help but ask.

“Initially? I acquired it from a Mr. Bushnell,” Sackett answered.

“Bushnell? I heard of him,” he said, surprised. “Yale. Didn't really know him, except from the stories told of him exploding kegs of gunpowder down the river.”

“Yalies...” Creighton muttered, shaking his head in slight exasperation.

“Sir, I have to respectfully object to your implied statement by reminding you that both the Yale men and women's fours beat the Naval Academy at the Head of the Charles twenty years in a row...even with exploding buoys that one year,” Natalie stated in a slightly challenging tone towards Creighton.

“Point taken,” the intelligence officer answered, nodding. “I won't jest again about Yale attendees' strange creations and experiments then... at least not for this era.”

“Regardless,” Natalie said after a moment in a brisk tone, “we stripped my donkey's compass from its internals and integrated it into the submersible so that you have a way to navigate while underwater. It glows, so you won't have to keep the candlelight on. There's also another modification to the hull, as you see here. Since Major Jefferson is an engineer by trade and schooling, I allowed him to make a few modifications for the explosives strapped to it. The barrels of gunpowder are still there, but I've added tar to some areas where Jefferson said the yield would be the highest. A few amount of grapeshots were also brought from one of the French ships and added to the clusters to provide more of an impact if this is ever floating next to a ship, dock, or anything that needs destroying.”

“That... is absolutely brilliant!” Caleb said, eyes wide with happiness as he stepped around the Turtle, carefully examining it. “I owe both you and Jefferson a few rounds of drinks!”

“He's going to challenge you to a drinking contest if you ever do such a thing,” Natalie advised. “You best be ready for it. Last I remember, didn't Carrie literally drink you under the table?”

The annoyed look that briefly showed upon Caleb's face was replace by wonderment as he continued to examine the Turtle, saying, “Yeah... but who cares!”

Creighton cleared his throat to draw their attention back to the matter at hand, saying, “Any other weapons, Agent?”

It was Sackett's turn to speak up as he said, “How many of your people survived and will be joining you in this assault on the ships?”

“Twenty including myself, sir,” Creighton answered.

“A third of the 2nd Light-Legions will be joining the ships assault,” Ben spoke up. “The rest will be with me taking Charlestown. Given the dryness, we will not be using the advanced rifles unless necessary. Anything else that you have down here to add with the grenade launchers would be welcomed.”

“Well, I think we have a little bit of both,” Natalie said, clasping her hands together, “to cause both mayhem in Charlestown and quite a bit of destruction against those ships. In the words of Carrie Brewster: lets blow some shit up and put on a real American shindig. Follow me, please.”

* * *

_A day later, nightfall, Charlestown, at the banks of the Charles River..._

 

The fog that all of them hoped would hold for another few nights was not to be. A sudden storm had swept in, dousing the entire region in heavy rains that forced both sides to temporarily cease firing upon each other. Ben had surmised that the storm was part of the gales that were preventing the French fleet from coming to their aid. Regardless, the rains only lasted throughout the day and into the early night. Now though, with the rain having stopped a few hours before but the skies still heavy with clouds and covering the harvest moon, there was no better time to launch the initial assault.

With muffled oars, the boats bearing Ben and his men across the river slid up the banks with a muddy halt. As ordered, each man and woman participating in this assault exited the boats via the bow, landing lightly in the wet sand and mud, instead of splashing into the river water. Each of them carried four flintlock pistols or rifles, two knives, shivs, or bayonets, and those who had them, sabres. Ben had found out that the flat blades that appeared whenever the riders rode their robotic horses with armor was not able to be detached from the horse, because it was strictly part of the armor configuration. Grenade launchers with the modification made to be adapted to use with the advanced rifles were being carried by certain persons of the assault unit.

His own personal armament had consisted of his trusty flintlock pistol and a another one strapped to either side of his waist, a third flintlock strapped to his back, and his sabre which hung by his left and was wrapped against the holster for the left pistol to not bang or make as much noise as usual when he ran. The forth pistol he carried was actually a gift given to him by Natalie – a twentieth century gun called a Walther PPK that had ten shots in the magazine and one already loaded into the chamber. He had been quite stunned by the unexpected gift, as she had explained that the types of guns that existed in the nineteenth and all of the twentieth and early twenty-first centuries were the transition between flintlocks and laser guns. The particular gun that she had gifted him with was one that she had brought herself at an antique store in her era – what she had termed in a joking manner her 'James Bond' gun.

He didn't know who exactly this 'James Bond' person was until she had briefly explained that he was a fictional character in spy stories from old, but by that time, the two of them had been interrupted by Sackett and Creighton. He knew that this particular gun was something special to her, and vowed to use it to keep himself safe, for the sake of her not to worry about him... even if she had made the river crossing with all of them, her own set of armaments out and ready.

Shaking his head slightly to clear his thoughts, he kept his profile low and near the ground – none of them knew if the British soldiers had the same binoculars that Natalie and her people used, or if there were Britannian soldiers among the British ones who had binoculars. However, as soon as all of them had landed and disembarked, he crouched behind a boulder, pulling out the borrowed binoculars from Lieutenant Winters who was taking India Company to assist in raiding the British ships.

Foxtrot and Echo Companies, led by Lieutenant Adams and Spiers, respectively, along with the majority of the dragoons led by him were to assault Charlestown. Their goal was to completely surround the fortification without the enemy inside of them or across the river spotting them. To do so, anything that was remotely shiny or able to be reflected should a sudden torch be swung towards them or the moon emerge from behind the thick clouds, was removed from their uniforms. Silver buttons were rubbed in dirt, and the sharp objects were sheathed until the last minute. The gold helmets with their white horsetail plumes were left behind.

Peering a little over the boulder, there was nothing through the binoculars to suggest that anyone manning the fortifications had noticed their arrival. Putting the binoculars down for a moment, he checked the small pocket watch that Sackett had given him and glanced out towards the inky harbor. They needed to time the actual attack with Caleb's lighting of the mast, and given the amount of time elapsed since the beginning of the mission, he needed to move his people into position sooner than later. He gestured with his free hand for the rest of his men to fan out and begin their approach to the fortification.

The training that his men had received from Brewster during the winter was quite evident in their approach, for before the future people had arrived, the way his men moved through woods and through the fields was either in a haphazard formation of lines or mimicking what natives moved like and failing quite miserably compared to now. Now though, they moved at a crouching pace, fast enough that they were not lingering in one position for long. The corn and wheat fields they slid through barely moved when they slid through, and Ben was glad he had received some training himself to move as the others moved during the time he had spent in New London.

They were to surround the fortifications on every side and when the fire-lit mast of whatever ship Caleb was to choose as the signal was seen, that was when they would launch their attack and take back Charlestown...

~~~

_Dorchester Bay..._

 

“Handsomely! Handsomely!” Caleb muttered to himself as he felt the rough tug of the rope that was tied to the Turtle jerk for a moment as what was left of the rope that had tugged him out to the deeper part of the bay fall into the water. It had been loosened from the boats that Creighton and the others of this assault group had commandeered. While the plan to blow up several English ship was quite possibly the most gleefully chaotic thing that he had ever heard of, the fact that it was Ben who had been the one suggesting it put a whole new light into the plan.

He had not needed to be told twice to commandeer the Turtle, but even with Sackett hemming and hawing over the one-man submersible yesterday as it was dragged down to the shore to be launched, there was now a slight trepidation crawling down his spine. The tiny candle that was burning within his vessel as he peered out through the equally tiny slit that was his window and started to cycle and paddle his way towards the harbor was going to have to be doused after he completely sealed the vessel to go underwater. He just hoped that when that happened, not only would God had mercy on his soul and keep him safe, but that he also had enough air to make the journey.

Without the moonlight, the darkness of the bay, along with the lapping water that hit the Turtle, shore, and the ships in the distance was hell on his sense of direction, but at least he had Natalie's advanced compass from her gutted donkey to guide him towards the right direction. It also gave him a timer as to how long he had until Ben and the land lubbering 2nd Light-Legions would reach and begin their attack the fortification at Charlestown. That was supposed to be timed just as he would light one of the ships' main or mizzenmasts on fire, though he preferred to light _the Tonnant_ 's masts on fire... just to make a bolder statement. Creighton and what was left of the _Winter_ 's crew, along with those of Lieutenant Winter's India Company crossing the bay and to the ships, would start their advance upon seeing the signal and use both the Charlestown fortifications assault and Caleb's distraction to charge across Dorchester Bay and into the harbor to board several of the ships to take the ships, their guns, and force the rest of the British ships to retreat or blow them up.

It was to be a grand old mess, and one that he looked forward to, but first, to sink under and paddle under the enormous ships until he was at one that was fairly center of the fleet. For the next few minutes, he paddled the contraption out of the bay and made his way into the harbor, occasionally peeking out to make sure that he wasn't spotted or that he had not hit any shallow rocks of the sort. The compass that hung next to him glowed quite brightly, but for some odd reason, he much preferred the candle that was slowly burning away.

Soon though, he finally made his way into the bay and alas, the first of the twenty ships in the harbor loomed in the distance. Taking a deep gulp of his breath, he took one last glance at the candle before blowing it out. “Sorry, but there ain't enough air for you and me,” he muttered as he began sealing the rest of the submersible. Just as the last of the sealants was completed, he sat back for a moment as a sudden wash of nervousness overtook him, preventing him from triggering the knobs and levers that would begin to blow the ballast out and sink the submersible under the water.

“Lord,” he whispered, looking up, “I know that we haven't spoken in a while, but... could you... keep me safe while I undertake this? I promise to speak more often to You in the future... Okay?”

Feeling a little more courageous, he reached forward and pushed and pulled a particular knob before ratcheting the lever forward. A creaking and croaking sound echoed within the Turtle, as he slowly felt himself sink beneath the water. As soon as he saw the small bubble of air, illuminated by the glow of the compass, reach the top, he ratcheted the lever again and the sinking stopped. So far, so good.

Taking a deep breath, he began paddling again, and moved forward. Down below in the murky dark water, he could barely see a thing, but the longer he spent underwater, he more he could see the faint outlines of the giant hulks of the ships and their anchors. He counted passing five ships within the harbor before he glanced at the timer again – he needed to surface. Ben and his men were just about ready to begin the assault, and there was no more time for him to be picky and choosy about which ship he would light the mast on fire.

Surfacing was much easier and he felt a great relief upon his chest as the familiar bob of the water and slap of waves upon the Turtle settled upon him after a few minutes. Trying to be as quiet as possible as he opened the hatch, he found himself floating next to the bow of a thirty-six gun ship that had its port guns facing Boston. Peeking around, it seemed that none of the other ships within the vicinity had seen him or heard him, and that gave him some hope and cheer.

“Good job little Turtle,” he absently whispered, patting the side of the vessel.

Grabbing the outer bobstay, he hefted and pulled himself until he was out of the Turtle and gave a rather forceful tug on a particular rope that was attached to the submersible. Wrapping his legs around the thick bobstay rope, he shimmed up until he was midway towards the bowspirit and took a hold of the bulwark lip that would allow him to peek over and peer across the forcastle deck. As soon as he got his bearings, he quietly lifted himself up to a crouch, balancing himself along the length of the bowspirit and behind the rather voluptuous figurehead that this particular ship bore. There were two marine guards on the deck, both of them standing on either side, but neither moving from where they were staring out at the bay. The officer of the watch, a rather young looking boy that Caleb could only assume was a midshipman just beginning his career in the British Navy, was standing at the poop. However, he too was staring more towards Boston than towards the bow.

None of the crew were sighted on the deck, and despite the noise of the waves lapping against the hull of the ship, Caleb could not hear anything of the sort going down below. Had most of the crew, marine guards, and whatever soldiers and provisions they carried been emptied into Boston? He didn't know, but as he took a quick glance down at the Turtle, he knew that he could not waste any more time speculating how many were on this ship. He needed to light a mast on fire before the Turtle exploded, and with what time he had left, he could not be picky – it was to be the foremast of this ship.

Edging himself along the bulwark lip on the starboard side as quietly as he could, he kept an eye on the three guards, especially the guard on this particular side until he got to the foremast' ratlines. Step by step, ring by ring, he hauled himself up, careful and quiet, but fast enough so that he was not lingering where the three on the deck could see him.

Soon, he reached the foremast's nest and as he carefully wrapped himself among the ratlines, he dug around the pockets of his long coat that he wore for the cotton wadding that he could stuff into a crack that he had felt and seen within the side of the nest. Stuffing the wadding into the crack, he then fished for the bottle of whale oil that he had brought last year. It was nearly empty now, but he uncorked it and poured a rather generous amount onto the cotton wadding before letting it trail off onto a part of the ratlines and around the base of the nest. He considered it a waste of perfectly good and expensive whale oil, but for this particular purpose – to burn down a British ship – it was good enough to do the job of starting the fire.

Corking the bottle and putting it into the nest, he then took out the flints and struck a small spark on the non-saturated part of the cotton. He barely had enough time to put away the flints and unholster his tomahawk before the greedy flame took hold and started to feed on the oil. He needed to get out of here fast, and thus, took the cable that connected the mainmast to the foremast, cut it with the tomahawk, and swung off of the ratlines.

Just as he reached the mainmast's ratlines, a boom was heard across the harbor, echoing even high up here, along with a closer explosion that shook the ship. The Turtle had exploded, and the fire that was quickly racing up and down the foremast and its ratlines. Wasting no time, he grabbed yet another cable on the mainmast as he heard the shouts of the three below, and cut the cable to swing down, allowing him to jump the last few feet and land on the poop, surprising the young watch officer.

“Hey,” he greeted in a smile full of teeth as the officer swung around upon his noisy arrival, pistol half-way out and sabre not even unsheathed yet. “Complements of General Washington, but we're taking our city back, starting with your ship.” He then knocked the officer out with a vicious blow to the head before the officer could even react to his words.

~~~

A flintlock pistol being wildly discharged into the inky night by a British soldier panicking was the least of Ben's worries as the brief glow of the future-rifles being charged up before firing their blue bolts dotted the dark skies. Charging with the rest of the 2nd Light-Legions towards the fortification, strategically placed marksmen armed with the same type of grenade launcher that Caleb used during the assault on the Kingstown fortification during the summer, fired their payloads.

Lobbed into the dark night with a trail of fire, the grenades struck true before a hail of blue bolts could rain down from the soldiers wielding the rifles. Screams of men dying and being torn to pieces filled the air. With both left and right pistols in his hands, he fired them one after the other, striking two soldiers, felling them as he holstered both again. He unsheathed his sabre, swinging diagonally downwards with his right arm just as a British officer tried to charge him, blocking the blow. With his left, he tugged the third pistol out from behind him and fired point blank into the officer, felling him.

Catching a glimpse of the harbor and of the ship that was being consumed by the fire from the Turtle's explosion and Caleb's lighting of the mast, he saw the lanterns on the other ships begin to move. Wasting little time, he shouted, “To the cannons!” They could not risk being fired upon during the assault.

Several more grenades launched from Sackett's weapons cleared the initial route, flinging men, stone, dirt, and metal all over the place as their dying echoes filled the air and was quickly drowned out by the deafening explosions. Holstering the pistol, he charged forward into the smoke, headed up towards where the cannons were situated over the bluff that governed this particular corner of Charlestown and the half-stone and half-earthen fortification that surrounded the place.

~~~

“Tally ho!”

Caleb's rather enthusiastic shout was not even heard by those below as he swung from the mizzenmast of the ship he had personally set on fire and allowed the tallest cable on the mast to snap and fling him onto the poop of the next ship. His landing was timed right when the first of the whaleboats zoomed across the bay and into the harbor, depositing its payload of men, women, and their weapons to several ships, including the one he had just landed upon.

“ _Groton_ , we are boarded!” he heard a naval officer shout, but silenced another seaman before he could start ringing the bell in warning to wake up whatever other crew had stayed aboard. The heavily modified blunderbuss that he had hidden under his longcoat and used to shoot the seaman had also sheared part of the watch bell off of its hinges.

Using it more like a blunt weapon since he didn't carry any other gunpowder other than the one on the blunderbuss, he swung it butt first into another seaman, cracking and snapping the man around in a grotesque pirouette. The frenzied shouts and screams, along with the discharge of flintlocks and the occasional _pew-pew_ of laser rifles filled the air. With how efficient the soldiers of the 2 nd Legionnaires' India Company, along with Creighton's surviving men and women behaved, the British sailors on board this particular ship stood no chance.

He didn't even get a chance to stroll down to the main deck before the chirpy, flushed face of Hart scampered up, breathlessly saying, “She's all clear, sir!”

Caleb looked around, noticing that it was the quickest surrender he had ever seen done – only a few British officers remained on the ship and they were now being herded towards the center of the ship and tied around the mainmast. Slinging the blunderbuss across his shoulder, he unhooked the tomahawk again and swung it around in a casual fashion, saying, “What say we take the _Groton_ on a quick jaunt around the bay?”

“With you at the helm, sure!” she chirped. “Lets give those tea-baggers a what-for, for Boston!”

“All right, first things first, secure the prisoners, then get the rest of the men and women at the top'sils. Keep the strongest of them below deck to take in the anchor when I say so, all right? As soon as we start moving, that's when the pirating and mayhem begins!”

~~~

“We yield, we surrender!”

“Hold! Stand down, they surrender!” Ben yelled to the 2nd Light-Legions to cease their attack as he reached out and accepted the British garrison commander's sabre. As the word was passed along, so did a great cheer of victory as various weapons were raised quite enthusiastically. He joined in with the yelling, a wide smile on his face as the rush of the battle faded from his senses, replaced by a giddiness that amplified the sense of victory.

However, all was not over, and as the cheers started to die down, he saw Adams make his way towards him, gesturing for him to follow as out of the corner of his eyes, one of his cavalrymen, Sergeant Davenport, push their surrendered British and Britannian prisoners towards a more isolated area where they could process and send the prisoners back over in the morning to be questioned and secured for future prisoner exchanges.

He had lost a few men to well-placed Britannian marksmen, but overall, the near-constant pounding and blinding explosions from the grenade launchers prevented the enemies with the same binoculars as they had from seeing where the others were coming from. Now, though, as he held on to the surrendered sabre and sheathed his own, he hurried over to where Adams was. Dawn was a couple of hours away and by daybreak, they would lose whatever advantage they had over the British ships and the shelling would begin. He could not fully depend on Caleb, Creighton, or the rest of the 2nd Legionnaires to take or destroy most of the ships, not with the amount of people they had with them and the weaponry they carried. He was sure they could possibly use whatever powder was left on the ships or spike the cannons, but clearing ships of those sizes in the bay took time.

“Sir, Agent Sackett needs you to see something,” Adams said, and Ben felt some unease bloom in his stomach at just how worried the officer sounded. “She's over there,” the officer continued, pointing towards the further point in the fortification. As dark as it was, Ben's eyes were completely adjusted to the nighttime and he saw the faint outline of a person holding up a pair of binoculars to her eyes and peering into the harbor. The booming echoes of a ship-to-ship battle being engaged in the harbor, along with the bright flames that were licking up those ships who had been set on fire could be clearly seen, heard, and smelled from here.

“Thanks,” he said. “Get the men who had been captured freed and have them start manning and preparing the cannons. We're going to need to engage the ships as soon as we can to keep them off guard.”

“Yes, sir.”

Though he understood the basics of how to command an artillery unit, he did not know the exact science of putting in the correct amount of gunpowder, the angle of attack, and other calculations needed to successfully hit something without blowing up the gun crew or friendly forces. He'd rather leave that to those who had more experience than he did at such matters. If the British tried to invade Charlestown again, he and his people would defend the fortifications in the way they knew how.

“Victory,” he stated as he stopped next to Natalie.

“Not quite, yet,” she said, removing the binoculars and turned slightly towards him, presenting the image of a flushed face with wind blown strands of hair that had gotten loose during their charge up and the subsequent battle.

He knew that he shouldn't worry about her so much, but he could not help it. He was, however, thankful to God that she had not been injured. Though he had not been able to see her fight, having engaged in his own fights during the brief skirmish, to see her hale and healthy brought relief to him. He did not linger on staring at her, knowing that there were far more important things to attend to and that the matters of his own heart and of his worry about her would have to be secondary... a lot more secondary at this moment.

Bringing up his own pair of binoculars and peering towards the bay where it seemed that the cannon fire being exchanged by two ships was the fiercest, he listened to her say, “Out in the bay, where the _Tonnant_ is, nearest to the lighthouse. Five ships to the right.”

Whether it was the exasperated sigh that inadvertently escaped his lips first, or the groan that got mingled in with it, it didn't matter. What mattered was the fact that contrary to the agreed-upon plan, it seemed that the more intrepid members of India Company, along with Creighton and the remaining crew of the _Winter_ , and most likely with Caleb's encouragement (or leadership in the matter), had taken three ships and were sailing circles around several of the other ships. With masts lit on fire.

“Why on earth do I hear the ghostly mad laughter of either Samantha or Brewster in my head?” he muttered as he briefly removed the binoculars and glanced over at Natalie.

“You and me both, Ben. You and me both,” she said, before her tone turned serious once again and she pointed out towards the other side of the Charles River, towards the northern docks of Boston, saying, “We've caught their attention, and they've already started to gather troops for an invasion across. I can't tell what they're doing at the moment, but come morning, either we're going to have to defend Charlestown from another assault against them or the _Tonnant_ and what's left of her fleet.”

He grimly nodded, “Keep me appraised of the situation across the river and harbor, please. I'll have Adams help you. I need to go down and take an inventory of what we have here. We'll need to hold position until General Arnold can return with the men from Springfield.”

“Will do,” she said. In a softer tone, she then said, “Congratulations on your victory thus far, Ben.”

“Thank you, Natalie.”

~~~

“Sir... sir...” the worried tone of Hart, who was standing beside him as he spun the wheel as far to the port as it could go, wrenching the ship in such a sharp turn that it tilted, necessitating him and the skeleton crew on board to hang on for something as cannonades flew across. A couple of them successfully impacted the exposed hull near the aft, but what was more concerning was the fact that the air around them was incredibly thick with smoke. A few cannons slid back further than normal with the turn, but as Caleb spun the wheel again, righting the ship, Hart's tone became even more concerned. “Perhaps...”

“Ship's on fire, Hart,” he cheerfully said. “Yes, I do know, and yes, we'll bail soon. Don't worry lass, I'm not going to sink us. Just want my eye on that prize.” He pointed straight ahead, past the part where their bowspirit had been completely sheared off and the foremast partially dismasted. They were still dragging part of it in the harbor, but it didn't matter. Fire, full sail, or not, the speed in which they had was good enough.

“Call all hands to the aft, Hart, and tell them to brace. We're headed straight into the _Tonnant_ 's arse! Get ready to jump as soon as we ram her.”

As the young enlisted woman relayed his orders, Caleb couldn't help but allow a grimly satisfied smile to bloom across his face. “Come on yer bloody bastards,” he muttered, as yet another broadside from the British ships that had finally discovered what exactly one of their rogue ships was doing, start to bring and bear their cannons upon his ship.

Splinters of heated wood and iron flew through the air and while there were a few shouts in exclamation from his crew, all of them made it back to the poop deck. More than a few were freely bleeding from numerous cuts, but none looked severely wounded that they could not move. All of them had, like him, grim smiles upon their faces.

As the _Tonnant_ loomed ever closer, it was at the last moment that Caleb shouted, “Brace!”

Though he had a tight grip upon the wheel, the awful creak of wood and iron splitting, bending, along with the sounds of a great and thunderous explosion from the impact, sent him and his crew rocking back before being thrown forward. He tumbled over the wheel, scrambling to grab the spokes before he slammed into the poop's railing with a painful thud. However, being used to the dangers that came with whaling and the unexpected that happened on a ship, his daze and confusion was only momentary – enough for him to blink, fling out a hand and snatch Hart by one of her flailing arms to keep her from being vaulted over the poop's railing and into the sharp debris-covered main deck.

Setting her down, he scrambled up, seeing that most of the others of his crew were in the same situation as him and reacting in the same way – none of them had been severely injured by the impact – but now was a race against time. They had to get off the fiery ship before the fire spread and exploded the rest of the stored gunpowder on the port and starboard holds – which had been sent tumbling forward and possibly into the rear of the _Tonnant_. The flagship of the English fleet was already quickly catching on fire as the greedy flames from his ship licked and lapped their way to the mizzen and spanker courses of the _Tonnant_.

“Go!” he shouted, as he pulled Hart up and tugged her with him. Splashes intermingled with the crackling of flames, along with the choking smoke and groans of debris falling everywhere filled his ears as both he and Hart ran as fast as they could up towards the rear of the ship.

Taking a flying leap just as an enormous explosion pushed both him and the rest of the escaping crew off and into the water, he hit the icy-cold harbor with a great splash. Sinking for a moment, he then kicked his legs and swung his arms. Emerging from the water, he greedily sucked in the air, coughing out some salty sea water that he had accidentally swallowed. There was little time for him and the others to fully recover from their plunge into the cold waters as they swam a few strokes away from the chaos they had left behind before turning to see what their handiwork had wrought.

It was a wreck... at least the ship that he had commandeered was... and as it continued to burn, he noticed that the _Tonnant_ had been severely damaged, but not enough to prevent it from trying to limp away on what sails it had left on its mainmast and foremast. Still, he could not help but grin and heartily laugh, though that was short lived as the _pwot-pwot_ of flintlocks being fired at them caused him and the others treading the water to flinch. Several more answers to the flintlocks from those being fired at British-controlled ships were heard, but it was the whistling song of several cannonades flying and impacting the ships that had their crew members firing upon them that caused the barrage to stop.

“Going my way, Lieutenant Brewster?” a rather casual voice said as Caleb and his floating crew continued to swim and tread water, heading as far away from the carnage and debris as possible so that they would not be caught up in the brewing battle between the retaken Charlestown fortifications and the remaining harbor ships.

“Hey, look at the commander,” he cheerfully said, though his teeth chattered for a moment with just how cold the water was, as he glanced up to see the faint, dark outline of three whaleboats gliding towards them.

“You know Lieutenant, you might be one crazy son of a gun, but not bad... not bad at all,” Creighton said, reaching out to haul him up by an arm as other members of the whaleboat crew steadied themselves and helped to haul the crew out of the water.

“So what about the other two ships?” he asked, trying hard not to let his teeth clatter together as he shivered.

“They're still giving the others the runaround, but I sent the other five whaleboats to go pick those crews up,” Creighton said. “Not quite the way I wanted the _Tonnant_ to go after what she and the Britannian submarines did to the _Winter_ and _Star_ , but I can't complain that you managed to punch a nice hole into her. My wife would have been proud of what you did, Lieutenant. Thank you.”

“Um,” Caleb began, unsure as to what to say to something like that.

Fortunately, Creighton wasn't one to expect any commentary of the sort and instead signaled for the whaleboats to start rowing away as soon as all of Caleb's skeleton crew was safely on board. “Looks like our landlubbering boys have gotten a hang of firing the cannons again. I think our job here is done.”

* * *

_North end of Boston, several hours later..._

 

There had never been a quieter or more beautiful dawn spilling over the horizon. The heavy smoke from the fires that burned created a glow of red and orange that allowed a halo of colors to spill into the cool morning sky – as if the great artist Leonardo da Vinci had painted the sky himself. But as beautiful as the dawning of a new day was, an even heartier sight greeted the residents and soldiers who fought in the second Battle for Boston: the sight of what was left of the heavily damaged English fleet limping away from the harbor and into the misty and lightly fogged Atlantic ocean morning.

The cheers of thousands could be heard from the other side of the river, swelling up until it became a deafening roar of victory, especially as the first rays of light spilled over the harbor, so did the appearance of General Arnold and the men from Springfield. Though the British-Britannian forces continued to fight, by early afternoon, the docks area had been successfully taken by the combined forces of the militia, Springfield forces, and Potemkin's forces. Lafayette's Musketeers and the Third Section remained behind to ensure that no opportunistic Britannians tried to harass civilians.

By late afternoon, with the combined forces closing in on the north end of Boston, that was when the more tenacious Britannian soldiers finally surrendered. All of the British forces had yielded after the taking of the central docks. With the full surrender and retreat of the English ships, that was also when Ben received a summon to return to Boston to report to Washington.

Leaving Adams and Spiers to organize the withdrawal of the 2nd Light-Legions from Charlestown and back across the river, Sergeant Davenport had been the one to row both him and Natalie over first. Some civilians openly stared at Natalie's unusual uniform, but there was no helping it – she did not have her colonial disguise handy, having left that at the Sackett Apothecary when that part of the port had been taken over. Others didn't care and cheered, with some embracing him and others just shaking his or Natalie's hands in a congratulatory manner for the great victory that freed their city once again.

Washington was the tallest among the crowds, and as he pushed through the thick crowds, it didn't escape his notice that members of the Third Section were openly standing on the rooftops, staring down at the crowds like hawks perched upon branches and searching for small prey. It heartened him to know that even with victory, they were still vigilant in their lookout for any sort of danger – the three assassins had not been accounted for before, during, or after the battles.

Finally, he and Natalie reached his commander's side, seeing that Lafayette, Hamilton, Laurens, Potemkin, and Arnold were also being congratulated among an adoring and ecstatic crowd. Peggy Shippen was also standing among the crowds closest to the commanders, as were the Sackett family, and Adams family. He didn't see Caleb, Creighton, or Lieutenant Winters among the crowds, but from the reports he had received via scout at dawn, it seemed that the three and most of their crews had survived as well. However, it was Washington who deserved his attention first, and as he openly shook his commander's hands, he said, “A great victory and my congratulations on it, Your Excellency.”

“It could not have been done without the initial boldness of your men and women, Major,” Washington warmly answered before letting go and clasped Natalie's hands. “Nor without your help in the modification of all those weaponry, so Nathaniel tells me, Agent Sackett.”

“Um,” Natalie began, flushing red with embarrassment. “Thank you, sir,” she said, nearly stuttering her words. “I--”

It happened so fast that Ben barely had enough time to find his footing as he was roughly shoved away as Natalie suddenly lunged towards Washington, just as a reed-thin man dressed in plain, Quaker-like clothes barreled his way through the crowds and emerged – only to bring up a silver, palm-sized gun that spat one green bolt out, right at General Washington. Instead of hitting the general, it instead lanced straight into Natalie, sending her into the ground. Ben caught her in his arms just before she hit the ground, as Lafayette and Laurens pulled Washington further behind them, with Arnold and Hamilton racing towards the assassin, who was in the midst of being tackled by Sackett and others.

Somewhere within Ben's mind, he knew that he should have been more worried about Washington and any injury that their commander may have received from the assassination attempt, but the sounds of the crowd screaming and shouting in fright seemed to far away as Natalie's body felt so heavy in his arms. His eyes were already searching out where the green bolt had hit her as he sunk to the ground on his knees, cradling her towards him. His hands pressed upon where he saw she was bleeding from, as his voice suddenly felt raw, barely hearing himself say denials. She was not moving and there was genuine fear in her eyes as she tried to say something to him but could not as her surprised expression turned into pain.

“Stay with me, Natalie,” he found himself begging as her eyes searched this way and that in confusion. “Please... stay...”

* * *

_Washington's temporary residence, later..._

 

“Mr. Alton-Tallmadge has confirmed that the assassin is indeed, one of the known enemy agents. Specifically Peter Sackett,” Washington heard Hamilton say.

“And what of Agent Sackett? Will she live?” he asked, glancing up from the report he had been reading, or at least the same line he had been reading over and over again for the past fifteen minutes.

“With the remarkable medical aid that those of the 2nd Legionnaires carry with them, the surgeons have said that if she survives the night, she will make a full recovery, Your Excellency.”

Washington placed the report down and weaved his hands together, but did not show the relief he felt upon his face. He never could, and it was already difficult enough to explain to those who had not been exposed to the madness that gripped their war for independence as to the purpose of Agent Sackett and the others; and just how much he depended on the Intelligence arm of the Continental Army. He had never expected the assassins from the future to be that baldly bold, especially in front of so many witnesses. For now, it was best to stick with as simple of an explanation as possible: that the defeated British left an assassin behind and that a civilian woman had stepped in the way, saving his life.

“And what of Major Tallmadge?” he asked after a moment of silence.

With the exposure of the assassin, he had ordered the entire city to be scoured for the other two, effectively placing Boston under complete martial law. While he knew it was not popular, the fact that this attempt on his and other commanders' lives in the public made it a little more palatable for the public to swallow for now. The only person he had granted a brief reprieve from such duties was his Head of Intelligence, even though it was not the wisest of choices that he could have made.

It was only because in that moment after he had been shot at, he had seen shock, along with grief coursing through Tallmadge's expression as his young officer had caught the woman before she could fully collapse onto the ground. It was also then that he realized just how deep Tallmadge's feelings and care for his agents, especially Agent Sackett, went. The young man loved her, and to see her shot in front of him without warning and in such a violent fashion... well, it would cause any man to do all sorts of rash things. Thus, the reprieve, and he hoped that it would be enough to allow his Head of Intelligence to gather his thoughts and calm himself in a manner befitting his position within the Continental Army.

“He is currently sitting vigil beside her, sir,” Hamilton answered. “Mr. Sackett will allow no one else into the room for now.”

He silently nodded before picking his report back up, saying, “Let me know if there are any changes. Please inform Mr. Alton-Tallmadge that I shall be interviewing our prisoner in about an hour.”

“As you wish, Your Excellency.”

* * *

_Sackett Apothecary Shop, near the central docks..._

 

Despite the words that had been exchanged between him and Sackett, Ben exited Sackett's house with a heavy heart. Natalie's eyes were still closed, but she was resting easier than she had been earlier. Though the medics of the 2nd Legionnaires were optimistic about her chances for a full recovery, the colonial-era surgeons were not. She, like him, had been shot in the stomach, and thus he was cautiously hopeful that she would open her eyes in the next few days.

As he made his way down the crowded streets towards Washington's temporary residence, he suddenly caught a glimpse of a familiar-looking face within the crowds. Turning his head slightly back as he paused, he knew that there was no mistaking it – he had certainly seen Lieutenant Gamble. Last he had seen that man was during his escape from the British or Britannian soldiers who had abducted him from the Rhode Island battlefields.

Curiosity temporarily overrode the heaviness he felt, and he followed the man until both of them were clear of the crowds and walking along streets that still had a people, but was not as thick. “Lieutenant Gamble!” he called out, “you survived!” The man stopped, but when he turned to face him, the smile that was on the militiaman's face was not friendly at all. Ben stopped where he was, instantly wary, as his hand hovered over to where he had holstered his flintlock pistol.

“If you want to catch Director Andre's other two assassins, you might want to hurry, Major Tallmadge,” Gamble stated in an unkind tone. “If you leave now, you might just catch them before they get past New Haven and into contested territory.”

“What?” he asked, nearly hissing his words as his hand moved towards the Walther PPK that was holstered on the underside. Then it hit him like a dousing of cold seawater upon his face. “You're one of Andre's agents... Robb Townsend.”

“And here I should give you more credit than what my former employers have told me about you, Major. You're smarter than you look,” the man answered in a caustic tone. “But, before you go all trigger happy and shoot me, hear me out. I know this sounds too good to be true, but I'm defecting to your side.”

Ben frowned but did not remove his hand from the gifted pistol. “Why should I believe you? Why now?”

“After all that I did to lead those soldiers away to let you escape?” Townsend said in a hurtful tone that sounded mocking to his ears.

“You lied,” he stated, “You lied about yourself when you first introduced yourself. And you knew perfectly what that robotic horse was capable of and yet you lied to all of us.”

“And yet I was under orders from Andre to detain and kill you. I did neither and only helped you escape. If I may show you something, Major,” the man said, gesturing towards a vest pocket that looked like there was something small and cylindrical pocketed within. Ben hesitated for a moment before glancing around, noting that even though they were on the side of a street, there were enough people who would be witnesses and could testify or detain Townsend if the man so chose to kill him right then and there. He nodded for the man to pull out the object from within the vest pocket.

It was no bigger than the width of a hand, but shiny silver in color and cylindrical with half-spheres on either end that were slightly smaller than the diameter of the cylinder. It was held out to him, but Ben did not take it. “What is it?” he asked.

“Sarah Livingston,” Townsend began, “was only an alias used by Yelena Sackett, one of Andre's assassins. I was ordered to help her, but she's the one who operated and implanted a compliance device within you using that musket ball wound in your gut as the site of implantation. I'm sure you're familiar with such a device or rather the drug behind it because that is how the Director managed to turn Culpeper Ring member 722, Abigail Woodhull, into a turncoat assassin.”

“A what?” he asked, feeling slightly faint at the fact that there was something foreign or had been, or still was, inside of him.

“It's a capsule of sorts, triggered by this device that dissolves and changes the chemical balance within you... in short, makes you as strange and as complaint to Director Andre's orders as Woodhull had been before my former employer sent his dogs to put her out of her misery. I took it out of you when you passed out in front of me after I retrieved your horse.”

“Not my horse,” he muttered, staring at the device in Townsend's hand.

“Right,” the man answered. “Take it. The assassins gave it to me, thinking that the device is still implanted within you. I was supposed to trigger this when Peter Sackett took that shot at Washington, with the first order already implanted into the device to force you to take the bullet for Washington in a non-fatal manner. It was supposed to put you closer to Washington, but Natalie Sackett stopped that bullet, not you. But I didn't--”

White hot anger swept through him as he grabbed the man by his lapels and violently shoved him against the wall, saying, “Don't you dare make a mockery of what happened! I would take a bullet for the General even without your Director's schemes!”

“And then you would have eventually been turned into what Woodhull was, and complete her mission,” Townsend hissed. “Count your blessings, _Major_ , that that woman did what she did--”

Ben let him go for a moment and then punched him. Hard.

The future agent slid to the ground in a daze. With his right knuckles still stinging and smarting from hitting the man across the temple, Ben glanced around, searching for militiamen. With luck, he happened to see two emerge from an alleyway, flintlocks held against their shoulders as the pair patrolled the streets. “Oy, you two!” he call out, hauling up the dazed man by an arm.

The two militiamen hurried over, drawing the attention of passerbys to what Ben had caused, but he did not pay the civilians any attention and instead, focused it on the two men, saying, “Take this man to Lieutenant Brewster. Tell him '723'.”

“723, sir?” one of the men confirmed.

“Yeah, he'll know what it means,” he said.

The two knuckled their foreheads in acknowledgment before hauling Townsend up and half-dragged him away. Ben watched them leave, blending into the crowd before crouching down for a brief moment to pick up the cylindrical object that the enemy agent had dropped. Though he was aware of the fact that the man would say anything to prove his innocence and the fact that he was defecting, something within the man's tone and in his eyes told him that he was not lying about the other two assassins.

Hurrying to the Green Dragon Inn, he entered with a quick wave towards the proprietors and went up the stairs to the room that he shared with Caleb. His friend wouldn't be back until nightfall, but this was the only opportunity he would get to try to kill two birds with one stone. He could try to hunt down Simcoe in New Haven and stop the assassins from escaping to New York.

In the shared room, he removed his jacket and laid it neatly on his bed before unbuttoning and undoing the rest of his outfit. His officers' boots were also removed and he pulled out a ratty disguise from a satchel that had been stuffed under his bed. This particular one was the plainest of the schoolmaster outfits he owned – the first outfit that he had brought with his meagre sum of money that had been paid to him when he had first started out after graduating. Brown breeches, off-white shirt, and a dark, slightly moth-eaten vest, dark stockings that matched the vest's color, along with plain black shoes that used to have silver buckles but were shorn off at one point in time. A simple jacket kept him warm, and a plain, dusty black tricorn that smelled a little like oilskin, completed the outfit.

Pocketing the cylindrical device within his vest, he unholstered the Walther PPK and slipped that into his jacket's outer pocket. He could not travel with his officer's pistol or sabre, not if he wanted to successfully blend in. He also grabbed the small dagger that had been hiding within his boot and slipped it into his shoes – it would be uncomfortable, but he didn't want to solely rely on the gifted gun as a means of defense. Lastly, he took a small pouch of money, both in Continental dollars and in British pounds and placed that into another pocket.

Taking a piece of parchment from the desk in his shared room, he quickly dabbed the quill that had been left out into the small ink bottle that Caleb most likely had forgotten to cap the last time he used it, and scratched out a short message. “Sorry, Caleb,” he muttered as he blew on the parchment to dry it faster before folding up the message and wrote his friend's name on the front of it. “You can't come with me this time... Washington's orders.” Shaking the quill free of ink, he capped the inkwell and left the quill as is. Taking one last look around the room, he squared his shoulders and left. All he could count on now, was that his friend would bear the message to Washington.

 

[ _General Washington, the day's weather tomorrow looks to be quite clear and crisp according to Ambassador Franklin's almanac. Three horses from my unit have been lamed, but I am in the midst of negotiating for replacements with the quartermaster. I hope that they shall be delivered safely by January's end. Your servant, Major Tallmadge._ ]

 

~*~*~*~

 


	27. The Culper Identity (Pt. 1)

**Chapter 27: The Culper Identity (Pt. 1)**

 

“How long will the serum last, Nathaniel?”

“At least twelve hours, I'm hoping,” Washington heard his adviser answer as he continued to stare at the closed door that behind, housed their prisoner. With the city just beginning to recover from its ordeal, there was not a safe place to put the assassin, so he had ordered his men to place the man in the most isolated area in the local prison. Trusted guards were keeping an eye on both the outside and inside of the place, though he had accepted Lafayette's offer to have some of the Musketeers also guarding within the prison.

After the prisoner had been secured, he had returned to his residence to take care of a few things, but it had not escaped his notice that more than the usual guards surrounded him. While grateful, he couldn't help feel a little annoyed at their presence, knowing that there were still more important things to do around the city than to ensure that a third attempt on his life was not taken.

However, he dared not voice it, for he had seen, _visibly seen_ , the members of the Third Section, along with some of the more intrepid members of Lafayette's Musketeers who had not been left behind, on the rooftops. He had yet to have a talk with the leader of the Third Section, but considering the crowds that had surrounded them in victory, he did not blame any of the future Russian secret police force for not wanting to shoot into crowds – owing completely to the fact that they did not want to drastically change whatever future they had by accidentally shooting an innocent civilian.

Martha had been worriedly waiting at his residence when he returned, but her safety gave him joy in an otherwise promising-turned-bleak day. She sat with him for the remainder of the day, keeping his heart at ease as much as possible as he received reports of how the manhunt throughout the city was going for the other two assassins. Now though, with another day passed and the sunset already upon the city, curfew for those in the city was about to be enacted once again. He knew that Martha was not at the residence at the moment, having told him that she would be visiting the Sackett's house to help and comfort the family in their hour of need.

“And how is Agent Sackett doing?” he quietly asked, not reaching for the door handle that would take him in to see the shackled prisoner just yet.

“The surgeons say that if she makes it through the night, she might yet just live,” he heard his friend quietly answer in an uncharacteristically somber tone.

“Even with these new fangled medicine and medics as they call it, they still cannot heal a man or woman fast enough when shot,” he couldn't help but mutter to himself. He glanced over at his friend. “As I said before, Nathaniel, if there is anything...”

“I know,” Sackett said, nodding, briefly closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again, “and thank you, George. All we can do now is pray.”

Reaching for the door, he turned the knob, but was suddenly interrupted with a loud clatter down the hall as the familiar voice of Hamilton shouted, “Your Excellency!”

Letting go of the knob, he stepped back and went towards the entrance to the hall, with Sackett not quite following behind him. The Lifeguards at the entrance to the hall had already stepped forward to block the way, but he saw beyond them to see his aides, Hamilton and Laurens, dragging a rather battered and bruised man by the arms down the hall. “What in the name of God is this?” he angrily demanded, for it was very unlike his aides to inflict such harm upon a man, no matter the circumstances.

“He was already like this before we fetched him, sir,” Laurens said, though Washington did not hear any sort of apologetic tone within his aide's voice.

“Though he could use a few more bruises,” he thought he heard Hamilton mutter, but a glare at his most trusted aide caused the man to look briefly down in shame.

“Lieutenant Caleb Brewster is the one who called for both of us to take this man and lock him up, sir,” Laurens stated after a moment of silence. “According to him, Major Tallmadge told two militiamen who brought this man to him, that this is 723, the future-723. Robb Townsend.”

Washington stared at the battered man in silence, noting that there was a ring around the man's left eye that looked the oldest out of the bruises that covered him. “And...” he began, but held back the initial question he wanted to ask about two particular officers – not Hamilton and Laurens – letting their anger get the better of them to nearly beat a prisoner senseless. He had read Scott's report about Tallmadge and Brewster's ungentlemanly actions towards Captain Simcoe over two years ago. It was only because of the Trenton report that he did not dismiss Tallmadge as an officer incapable of his duties with regards to prisoner treatment. But now... he was most definitely having some small doubts, though they leaned more towards the volatile Brewster than towards Tallmadge.

“Where are Major Tallmadge and Lieutenant Brewster?” he asked after a moment.

“The Lieutenant is fetching--”

“Sir! General Washington!” Brewster's shouts from the entrance to the prison echoed down to where they were. “Let me go! I need to see him! Sir!”

He gave a quick nod towards his aides to put the future-agent within another cell before signaling towards his Lifeguards to let those at the entrance to the prison to let the lieutenant through. As one hurried down the hall, he heard the clank and squeal of iron bars and hinges being opened, along with the sounds of shackles being placed upon their newest prisoner. They only had one isolated cell that was separate from the other ordinary cells, but he was not about to put the assassin out into the regular cells, especially not after what the man really looked like. People did not need to know that the man looked nearly similar to Nathaniel under the full face-mask that he had been wearing when attempting to assassinate.

As the sounds of his aides securing and closing the cell door before locking it were heard, the Lifeguard who had gone out to let Brewster through came back with him. “'Sir!” the man said, thrusting a piece of parchment into his hands. “It's from Ben.”

Curious, he took it and read through it not once, but twice. After a few minutes, he finally looked up and asked, “Do you know where Major Tallmadge is?”

There was a glint of anxiousness in the lieutenant's eyes, but Brewster quickly shook his head saying, “No, sir. His uniform is on his bed at the Green Dragon Inn. I can't make heads or tails of the message.”

Washington managed to keep the frown from appearing on his face as he grimly pressed his lips together. He would have to speak to his Head of Intelligence much later about subordinates becoming a little too uncouth with prisoners, for at the moment, he knew that in order for Tallmadge to complete the secret assignment that he had been given _and_ successfully capture the other two assassins, he, Washington, would need to deploy the appropriate measures.

He glanced over towards where the future-723 was chained up, briefly wondering if Tallmadge had wrest the information from the man before setting off on his mission to kill two birds with one stone. He wouldn't put it past him to do so, but right now was not the time to dwell on lesser matters. Now was the time for action, and he was still very incensed at what the British and Britannian forces had done to Boston – to civilians. Britannia may have thrown out the rules of war, but for British forces to have done so appalled him greatly. He vowed never to stoop down to their level, and he was not going to, not even now with what he was about to do.

Folding up the letter, he slipped it into his inner vest pocket, saying, “Lieutenant, take the 2nd Light-Legions and spread the forces up and down the Naugatuck River. Please also inform Commander Creighton that I require, not request, but require his and what remains of the _Winter_ 's crew's services. You and the others of the 2nd Light-Legions who are confident in seamanship shall also be commandeering several whaleboats and will patrol the waters off of Stratford to New Haven.”

“Sir, that's contested territory. Might I advise that more be sent with the 2nd Light-Legions...” Laurens began, but fell silent as Washington gave his aide a look.

“I know,” he simply said. “I am merely closing the gates before the two remaining assassins can flee back into British-controlled lands. To do so requires a small force that can strike fast and hard, as we have seen proven in this second ousting of British forces from Boston.”

* * *

_A few days later in New Haven, Connecticut_

 

“The documents on Simcoe might be hidden under the Magistrate's desk drawer, Abraham.”

Abe paused mid-bite into his eggs as he looked up to see a nonchalant look upon his wife's face as she scooped up some porridge from the pot that was hanging over the fireplace and placed it into a small bowl. Placing a spoon into the bowl in front of him, she then sat back down and picked up a smaller portion of the porridge that was already set out and cooling for Thomas.

“What?” he asked, watching her feed their son with almost an unconcerned air about her, as if she did not even care about what she had just stated.

“The documents,” she continued, not even sparing him a glance in her duties towards their son, “your father sometimes keeps important documents in between the base of the drawer and the drawer itself. I've seen him hide a few things there before. Perhaps this Magistrate is doing the same, and if so, he is most certainly under the thumb of Simcoe.”

“But Mary...” he began, quite baffled at her behavior. It was one thing to ask how to properly defend herself with a rifle with all things considered, and he had agreed to teach her how to wield one, but this...

The day after they had initially arrived in New Haven, he had explained to her the truth as to why they had to leave Setauket, and as predicted, she had not taken the news so well. However, to his surprise, she had not yelled at him but rather asked to be left alone and for him to take Thomas for the afternoon. Her disapproving silence towards him had grown since then, but after he had started to teach her how to shoot a rifle, that silent treatment had all but melted away. He knew that she did not approve of him going to the Strong's tavern often, but the fact that he returned to her each night made their marriage more bearable. This was the first time since their escape to the port city that she had openly talked about what they were doing here – to monitor and spy on Simcoe and his cohorts.

As soon as they had moved out of Anna and Selah's tavern, in whatever spare time he could take between his clerking duties and spying on Simcoe and his men, he and his wife had gone into the relative wilderness to find a place to properly begin their lives again. He found city living, even in such a small one such as New Haven quite stifling, and found that he did truly miss farming. Mary had also worried for their safety since where they were looking to build a farm was near the borders of contested territory and rife with smugglers, skinners, and cowboys, and thus he had begun to properly teach her how to shoot a rifle.

“I still don't support the Patriot cause, Abraham,” she stated, finally placing Thomas's breakfast down and looked over at him. “But that doesn't mean that I know how much of a threat Simcoe is to not only you and the Strongs, but also to me and Thomas. I know you and the others have been trying to follow and track the man and his soldiers for these past months since they returned from God knows where.”

She paused for a moment before looking down at her hands and then looked back up, “You also are starting to talk in your sleep Abraham. You talk about searching for papers and about Simcoe... and sometimes, about Abigail Woodhull. All I'm suggesting is that perhaps the papers you're looking for might be hidden in between desk drawers.”

“I-I talk...” he began, feeling quite a bit of trepidation crawl down his back. “In my sleep?” She silently nodded. “W-what else... have I said?”

She hesitated for a moment before saying, “Nothing that bears repeating, Abraham.”

He was silent for a very long moment before nodding and saying, “Thank you, Mary.”

“Don't thank me, Abraham,” she said, shaking her head slightly, as she picked up the bowl of porridge again. “I'm only doing this for our son and our future.”

* * *

Even though it was a dreary and cold day, the market stalls up and down the Green were still crowded with people who needed to buy the necessary food and supplies before the onset of a cold, coastal winter settled. Though Mary's basket was ladened with food that she would be making tonight for evening meal, along with a few fresh meats that she would cure for the winter, she still carried Thomas in her other arm. She did not want him to walk in the muddy streets and also potentially be hurt by passerby who would not see such a small child, at least not until she was clear of the crowds and traveling down lesser crowded streets.

She had wanted to say more to her husband this morning, to tell him exactly what he had been saying in his sleep, but as soon as she had mentioned Abigail Woodhull, she had seen his expression turn briefly towards grief before disappearing into the mask of worry that he constantly wore now. Though she herself was still mostly in disbelief about descendants and the such, it was the fact that she occasionally saw the man named Andrew Strong out and about the city that made it a little more believable. It also gave her hope that perhaps her and Abraham's marriage was not to be torn any further by Anna, for the resemblance between Andrew Strong and Selah was quite remarkable. It told her that eventually, Anna and Selah would have children of their own, and this infidelity that Abraham and Anna had engaged in would be done and over with.

“All right Thomas,” she said, finally stopping on the corner of two streets and placed her son down. Taking him by the hand, she shifted the basket of food slightly and gave him a reassuring smile. “Let's walk home, shall we?” she asked.

“Ma,” her son answered in agreement before taking a couple of steps forward.

Dreary days such as this, even in a larger port city than Setauket were not usually enjoyed by her, but with her son at her side, it made it more bearable. As the two continued down the street though, she started to get a sense of the fact that perhaps she was being watched. Whether it was because of what had happened in the past two years, or the fact that because of her husband's work, it was an uneasy feeling in her stomach that caused her to pause and look back.

There was no one suspicious that she could see as far as she could around her. Every person that walked along the streets did so with a purpose in hand, heading towards wherever they needed to go. She quietly sighed to herself, perhaps all this talk about the deplorable spying business with her husband this morning was also putting too much worry on her to stay hidden and safe from Simcoe and his men. She did not want to become a liability to her husband, hence why she asked him to teach her how to shoot a rifle, and it surprised her when he had agreed to it. Now, was she becoming as jumpy as he--

“Might I help you with that basket, Mrs. Woodhull?”

Mary's heart skipped a beat in complete fright as she returned her gaze to the front, but far be it that Simcoe or his men had found her, but another man had. Dressed in a simple jacket with brown breeches and equally dark stockings that matched his vest, along with a plain, off-white shirt and shoes that looked like they had been through better days, the man standing before her looked like an ordinary concerned citizen. However, underneath the plain black tricorn was a youthful face covered in a few days growth that was starting to become beard-like, but still recognizable. Last she had seen of this man, Setauket was under invasion... not by the British, but by Continental forces led by him.

“M-Major Tallmadge,” she said, swallowing a bit nervously and wondering if the officer's presence was a portend to yet another invasion.

“I mean you and your son no harm,” the disguised officer said, holding up his hands as if to placate her. “I merely am asking if you need help with that basket, Mrs. Woodhull? It looks quite heavy.”

“Ma?” Thomas questioned, tugging on her hand.

She resolutely ignored the urge to look down at her son, fearing the thought that if she looked any other way, perhaps the worse she feared would happen. She knew that her husband were close childhood friends with Tallmadge and Brewster, but even though Abraham had vouched for the two during his explanation, what they had done in Setauket had colored her perceptions greatly. “No,” she said, managing to control the tremble in her voice as she looked at the officer squarely in the eyes, though a part of her was wondering exactly why Tallmadge was in disguise. “If you're looking for Abraham, he is currently at work, clerking at the Magistrate's office. He usually goes to the Bulldog's Tavern this day of the week after work if you're so inclined to speak to him.”

“And where might I find this tavern?”

“North-eastern outskirts of the town, on the coast,” she curtly answered before tightening her grip on her son's hand. “Good day, Major.”

Taking a firm step to the side, she kept her head high and walked as fast as little Thomas's feet would go. It was only after she turned and took a few steps into another street that she stopped and collapsed against the brick wall of a building. Letting go of her son's hand for a brief moment, she clutched her chest, breathing quite heavily as she fought to keep the fear and relief from overwhelming her and sending her to tears. It was only the tug of her son on her dress that brought her back out of the hazy depths that she had fallen in as she sniffled and tried to blink the tears from her eyes.

“It's all right, Thomas,” she said, looking down at her son. “I'm all right. Let us go home now.”

The only answer she received from her son was his toothy grin as he reached up for her hand again. It was not fear of the Major that had caused her to be terrified, but the fact that she had been identified and most likely followed by one of Abraham's acquaintances that had. If someone like Major Tallmadge was able to do so without inflicting harm, then there was no doubt in her mind that Simcoe could do the same except with ill intent.

She, along with Abraham, and their son were no longer safe.

* * *

_Later..._

 

With his hat and the dark corner he sat in obscuring most of his face from both casual observers and those who stayed at the tavern until Selah started to call for last orders, Ben carefully watched the comings and goings of the people. While the tavern was not the most popular, considering it was on the outskirts of New Haven, it certainly was a welcoming atmosphere for weary travelers from by land or sea. He remembered during his time in Yale that the more popular taverns were the ones surrounding the Green – mainly because they had cheaper ale.

Taking another sip of the ale that he had been nursing for the past hour, there had been a few times where he had nearly risen from his seat to stop some drunken patron from harassing Anna as she served them their drinks and food. Fortunately, if it was not Selah who put the harassment to a stop by forcibly kicking out the patron, it was the most curious-looking of a man who did so.

Ben didn't know who the man was, but from the height and the looks that the man wore, he had to give an educated guess that the one helping Anna and Selah with their tavern was none other than Andrew Strong. The resemblance to Selah was quite prominent, but the way the man moved around the tavern was fluid, almost as if he were dancing around patrons with an ease that missed absolutely no details about the various patrons that he served. To him, it looked almost predatory... as if the man was a mountain lion stalking a hapless deer. Twice he had already caught the man looking towards him, but Ben could not discern any expression other than mild curiosity upon the man's face.

The bell rung again as the door to the tavern opened at such a late hour, and Ben saw Abe step in. As much as he wanted to rush over and ambush his friend with a bear hug, he refrained himself from doing so. There were still people around, and he wanted to see how things were between his agents without his interference. It had been quite a while since their meeting in the outskirts of New York City, and he hoped that by now, whatever was plaguing Abe and Anna was settled. He didn't want his two best agents to have any sort of conflict with each other, especially not while they were here monitoring Simcoe.

Unfortunately, he suspected that peace was not all that evident, if Selah's glowering expression at the bar was anything to go by. He glanced over towards the bar to see Anna pick up a mug of ale and bring it over to Abe, who had settled himself at the table nearest to the stairs, hunched over and looking as if he had come from a very long day and just wanted to drink in peace.

“Last call for drinks!” Selah called out about ten minutes after Abe had arrived.

Ben watched with interest as the usual grumbles of patrons wanting to stay longer to continue to drink and wallow in whatever plagued their hearts and minds, mixed in with the more opportunistic or dare he say it, patrons who made a mad dash to the bar. He remembered with fond memories of him and Nathan Hale doing the same as two travelers were currently attempting, to drink as many pints as they could with the money they had left before leaving to sleep it off. One of those drunken nights had ended up with him, Nathan, and Nathan's brother breaking windows... and with him, Ben, doing some damage to Yale property.

Unlike the tavern owner who didn't like the three of them doing such reckless things, it seemed that Selah put up with it, especially since the two travelers were quite cheerfully loud as they stumbled their way out. Abe did not move from where he was sitting, through Anna seemed to stand near by, as if pretending that she was there to escort him out if necessary after the tavern closed. However, as the patrons trickled out, it slowly became emptier and emptier until he and Abe were the only patrons left.

Ben kept calmly sipping what was left of his ale, now warm and not pleasant tasting, as he heard the footsteps of Anna and Selah's descendant coming over towards him. “Best be on the road, sir,” the man said. “We're closing up. You can probably find some lodgings near the docks if your boat doesn't leave until tomorrow morning.”

Placing the mug down on the table, he leaned forward and removed his hat, saying, “If you don't mind, I think I'll stay for a while, Agent Strong.”

“Ben?” Anna exclaimed in surprise as she hurried over. The agent stepped to the side just as Ben stood up and heartily embraced Anna. As they let go, she took a step back, saying, “It's been so long! And look at that--” she gestured towards his lower jaw which had a few days worth of growth that was starting to become more filled in and almost beard-like “--you have a bit of a scruffiness like Caleb now!”

Just as Anna stepped back further, he saw Abe get up from where he was sitting, approach and stopped before him with a mild look upon his face. However, without warning, he was suddenly rocked back a step as pain bloomed on the side of his face, as his vision was knocked to the right; with Abe's punch landing squarely on his left cheek. It was quite unexpected, but having gotten into a few fistfights during his childhood and most definitely during his Yale days, he managed to stop himself from being propelled any further back as he tried to shake the stunned feeling.

“Abe!” Anna had exclaimed at the same time that Anna's descendant had shouted, “Oy!”

“What the bloody hell, Ben?!” Abe shouted as Ben blinked the fuzziness from his eyes, noticing that out of the corner of his eyes Abe made to punch him again but was immediately and forcibly restrained by Agent Strong. “What the bloody hell were you doing?! How in God's name did you let Abigail Woodhull die?! Why didn't you send more men to protect her?! She was broken for God's sake and you let Andre and his agents _kill_ her, you shite!”

“She was already too far gone!” he roared, momentary anger surging through him, as he ignored the pain radiating from his jaw. It seemed that his unexpected shout at Abe had momentarily stunned his friend into silence, and despite himself, he could not stay angry any longer, not when he needed his agents to continue their work. He could not let this escalate into something that it really should not be. “I'm sorry,” he said in a quieter tone. “She was already too far gone even before we transported her to the safe house.”

“Oh,” Abe sarcastically said, shaking his arm out of Agent Strong's grasp, glaring at the man for a moment before returning his attention to Ben, “mercy then. You thought it was mercy for her to be killed in that manner? To be murdered in cold blood?!” Abe extended his left arm and poked him in the chest quite hard, saying, “I _risked_ my life to go down there in New York, to work with Simcoe of all people, never mind that he was apparently Captain Simcoe's descendant, Ben. I saw what they did to her! I... Samantha and I saved her, and for what? Just so she could die? Do you even know what's that like? To watch a descendant of yours suffer so much only to not even be given a chance to be saved?!”

“Yes,” he said, nearly hissing the word. Before the fete, Caleb had pulled him aside and told him about the horrific promise that his descendant, Benjamin S. Tallmadge, had made with Jefferson and Brewster when they had attended Westpoint Academy. If he and his descendant ever met on the battlefield next time, he was sure that there would be nothing left of what he knew about his descendant – especially not with the reputation that the Sheridan Rangers carried. But Abe did not need to know about that, and therefore instead of elaborating, he briefly closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. He could not let his temper or Abe's accusations and temper get the better of him.

Opening his eyes, he continued to say, “I'm here to stop Simcoe. I need your help Abe--” he glanced around, catching Selah, Anna, and Agent Strong's eyes, “all of your help in this.”

“Stop?” Agent Strong said, looking a bit skeptical. “You might as well say it, Major Tallmadge. You're here to assassinate him, to make sure that he does not become a liability to the Ring in New Haven.” Silence answered the agent's words, but none of them moved from where they were standing except for Selah who had come from behind the bar to lock the tavern door and start dousing some candles.

“Well, we don't know which Simcoe is currently in New Haven. It seems that both are the same, though both Creighton and Rogers has said that they have seen one Simcoe harassing Hewlett at the same time we have observed the other Simcoe here. Unfortunately, Creighton is no longer coming to New Haven to drop off any information about New York because somehow, whichever Simcoe is in Setauket, had managed to cajole Hewlett to let him join in the search for us. So Creighton is giving that Simcoe the run around. Rogers is helping him with that.”

“What else has Simcoe been doing besides visiting the apothecary shop owned by Hannah Arnold?” he asked as Abe fell silent, looking quite surly, but no longer looking like he was going to punch him again.

“Apart from what we've reported, not much else. There was that two or three month period during the late summer that he and his men went missing from New Haven,” Anna spoke up, beckoning for them to sit around the table. “We heard there was a skirmish of sorts in Rhode Island?”

“I didn't see him there, at least not initially,” Ben answered, deciding to not work his jaw around too much as it was still painful for him to open his mouth further than necessary except to talk. “Though given the size and breadth of the skirmishes that we were all engaged in during those months, it is possible that he was deployed elsewhere within Rhode Island and that the 2nd Light-Legions just didn't encounter him or his men. How many are there, and have they all returned here for the winter?”

“Plus Simcoe, fifteen total,” Abe answered, almost grinding his answers out. “We think they're around, but like Simcoe, they're not wearing uniforms – they're blended.”

“I did a scouting route around New Haven and some of the villages once I saw Simcoe talking with one of his men a few months ago,” Andrew spoke up. “They're definitely blended in with those living here, but so far, they haven't done anything to warrant attention. It's just been hard to avoid them, since we don't know if they know our faces or not. Last I saw them before they disappeared during those three months, five were near the Magistrate's office, three were hanging out at Yale, and four were patronizing some of the more popular taverns. Two do stay near the apothecary and at the docks though. Mostly helping bring in whatever shipment is coming in that day. Since then, if they've all returned, I haven't been able to track all of them, due to the influx of people fleeing the coastal towns that those Brits burned.” In a quieter tone, the agent muttered, “Can't believe they burned Norwalk again...”

“Bollocks,” Ben quietly cursed, much to the surprise of the others, “then it could be a hostage situation or worse at the apothecary.”

“So it is true then?” Andrew asked. “Miss Arnold is _the_...”

“What?” Abe asked, puzzled, as both Anna and Selah's expression matched the farmer's expression.

“Yes,” Ben answered, nodding towards the agent before turning his attention to Abe and the others. “Hannah Arnold and the three boys that she is caring for, along with the apothecary shop they own, are of family relation to General Arnold.”

“The same General Arnold who who rallied our forces at Saratoga and routed the British?” Selah asked, intrigued. “Weren't we supposed to have met him at Ridgefield?”

“Yes, but that's not the point,” he answered. “The point is, we need to find out if Simcoe has exerted any undue influence on the Arnolds, and if so, rectify that with immediate haste.”

“But I don't understand, Ben,” Anna spoke up, “Does General Washington know about this? Is this not a personal vendetta of sorts against Simcoe?”

“You didn't tell them?” Ben asked, looking at Agent Strong. “I thought you of all people, with that much knowledge of what happens in our war, would have told them.”

“Hey with all of you peoples here having too many common given and surnames, and naming after dead brothers, sisters, cousins, wives, whatever... I didn't know if Hannah Arnold was the sister of General Arnold. There's more than one Arnold family living in New Haven and plenty more in Connecticut. We just saw Simcoe and his people hanging about New Haven, and given how close we are to contested territory, it isn't a stretch to say that Mr. Bug-Eye is casing the city for a spring takeover,” the agent said.

Ben paused for a moment before nodding, “A valid point, Agent Strong. But to answer your question, Anna, in whatever future your descendant and others come from, General Arnold is a traitor. Washington has ordered us to prevent his defection.”

“But wouldn't that _change_ history?” Selah asked. “As in greatly change it?”

“And if it does?” he challenged, giving the agent an unflinching look. “You're Director Andre is willing to use devices to transport people and unnatural things to our era, then why the hell should we not take advantage of it? The rules of war are already destroyed, Agent. If we have any hope of winning this war, then perhaps its time we alter what 'history' should be!”

“Those time devices,” Strong said, “I know where they are...were, and more exactly, whom they have been implanted into. That's how I got captured in the first place – lingering and sniffing in the Director's lair for too long just to see what machinations he was up to. Boston was my first destination in both my era and here until Simcoe here decided to rear his ugly head in town.”

“Implanted? Who?” Ben asked, worry coloring his tone, ignoring the completely baffled and confused looks that Anna, Selah, and Abe were giving him.

“I made sketches,” the agent said. “I'll be right back.”

“In the meantime, let's sit,” Anna said, pulling out one of the chairs at the table but distinctly sat herself between him and Abe, while Selah returned to the bar to fetch a few glasses and a bottle. Selah had only managed to pour all of them a glass before the footsteps of Agent Strong on the stairs were heard.

“I was going to send this out via the carrier pigeon that my Major Tallmadge had left here,” Strong said, placing the folded pieces of parchment down on the table in front of him before taking a seat, “but then Rhode Island and skirmishes up and down the Connecticut coast made it a bit tricky to know if the pigeon was going to make it or not. Then we got word that Boston was being attacked. Couldn't let this fall into enemy hands, sir.”

“We repelled that attack and took the city back,” he said, taking the pieces up and unfolding them. A frown immediately formed on his face as he took a look at the first sketch. While not exact, it was a likeness close enough that he could not help but glance up and ask, “Do you know the people that were implanted with the device, Agent Strong?”

“No,” the agent answered, shaking his head slightly. “Just found their faces within the database that housed information on the devices. I managed to download it into a crystal and get it out before they captured Abby, sorry Agent Woodhull, and me though.”

“If it is the same crystal that Agent Tallmadge picked up in your city of Baltimore before she too was transported, then yes, it was delivered to safe hands,” he said, flipping over to the next sketch and the finally the last sketch. Bringing the first sketch back to the forefront, he flipped it over and slid it across to the center of the table, tapping his right index finger over the face, saying, “That's Peter Sackett. One of the seventeen assassins your people sent to kill Director Andre.”

“Respectfully, sir,” Strong began, “that's not. He died during that assassination attempt. I saw it with my own two eyes. Abby and I were there, the moles within Andre's organization to let the seventeen in for their attempt. And that man does not even look like Peter Sackett.”

If his frown could get any deeper, it did. He had verbally heard it confirmed from not only Sackett, but Commander Creighton himself that the assassin was Peter Sackett. However, he had not had a chance to go interview the man before departing, which meant, “Full facial mask?”

The only other time he had encountered such a phenomenon was when he had been captured by Director Andre, and before he blacked out, he had seen the man pull off what looked like a completely full facial mask with hair over his head. It was possible, and he would not put it past that agents under the employ of the man would have access to such a thing as well.

“Simcoe isn't the only target you're here for, aren't you, Major?”

Ben remained silent as he glanced and parsed out the three sketches across the small table. There was a great possibility, even if he did not know how the future worked, that the three assassins would be operating under completely different identities, only to discard them when their assignment was complete or to quickly escape. Thus, of the three sketches, only the man's sketch was the most viable and could be confirmed. He would be hunting completely blind in New Haven if he tried to search for the other two assassins.

“Send the sketches via pigeon to Washington, along with a detail in code about how to disable or destroy the devices implanted within the three,” he said at long last.

“You captured one of them?” Strong asked, surprised.

“Peter Sackett or not, the man we captured attempted to assassinate Washington. He was stopped, but he does look like the man you have sketched, Agent. Regardless, if this man does indeed have one of those transportation devices within him, Washington must know how to remove and destroy it. Our 'history' as you call it, is already in grave danger. The sooner we untangle ourselves from this mess, the better it is for all of us.”

Though it pained him to say the words, for he was still quite vengeful in the face of what happened to Natalie, that initial white-hot anger had cooled considerably during his ride to New Haven. Now, that cold anger helped fortify him and gave him the purpose he needed to stop and hunt down the assassins and protect his agents. First his father, and now Natalie – he was tired of reacting to everything that the British or Britannia tried to throw at them – it was time to instigate and act as they had done with the opening days of their rebellion.

“You need all three devices together in order to fully disable and transport everything back to the way they were, sir,” the agent cautioned. “What I saw in the database before it was shoved into the crystal was that those people were scattered to New York, Philadelphia, and Boston. Agent Tallmadge must have given you and Washington my dossier and skill set when she sent the initial reports of our duties here. Respectfully, you'll need my help if you're hunting the other two, sir.”

“Yes,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “she did. You trained Juhani Sheridan, did you not?”

“I did,” the man answered in a simple and not boastful tone. “I'm not sure what that has to do with hunting down the other two, but I heard that you, Agent Sackett, and Lieutenant Brewster encountered him and some Sheridan Rangers last year and that he was killed. What of it?”

“Nothing at the moment,” he answered, deciding to turn the topic back to the main one at hand. He did not want to enlist the agent's help in the matter concerning the assassins, not when the agent would be of more use protecting and helping kill Simcoe, who was the primary threat. “I do need to know if there has been any undue influence upon the Arnold family, or rather, General Arnold yet from Simcoe. If there is, then killing Simcoe will not be the end of it.”

“I found a document that the Magistrate had hidden away between desk drawers,” Abe spoke up, drawing a small, folded piece of parchment out and unfolding it. “It was a land purchasing title under Congress's authority bearing the signature of Hannah Arnold, and appended with the scrawl of 'on behalf of her brother, Benedict'. A map was also behind it. I didn't copy the numbers and only got a copy of the map done before I had to put it away. I can tell you that the numbers were enormous sums, upwards of 20,000 pounds for each piece of land.”

“But why would Congress...” Ben began but peered a bit closer at the map. “That's... that's land on which Yale sits upon!”

“When was the date for the land purchase, Woodhull?” Selah asked, frowning as well.

“Well before Simcoe disappeared for those three months. Mid June,” Abe answered.

“But I don't even think Miss Arnold--” Anna began.

“It's actually Mrs. Graves now,” Abe interrupted. “The marriage certificate came across my desk this morning. She was married to 'Shaun Graves' yesterday.”

“Well its still Miss Arnold as far as we are concerned,” Agent Strong stated. “She just married an impostor.”

“Which brings me back to my question,” Anna said, the furrow of her eyebrows knitting a bit closer in concern. “Even a popular tavern does not bring in more than 3,000 or maybe if we're lucky, 5,000 pounds per month. How can an apothecary shop owner hope to bring in more than 20,000 pounds to purchase land that quickly? I only heard rumors that her apothecary is starting to only pay whatever debts its owed, and it is at least 15,000 pounds in the red. It doesn't make any sense for her to purchase land at this moment, much less a land where a college is sitting upon.”

“Unless she was forced to,” Ben stated, knitting his fingers together as he rested his elbows upon the table and stared at the map. “Her marriage, this land purchase in the name of General Arnold, it is practically blackmail and putting the general into further debts. By purchasing land upon a college, that would make the collegiate quite incensed if they are suddenly ousted or worse yet, paying to stay where they are, or exerting undue influence in their thoughts and words... in other words, sedition monitored by the British via Simcoe with Hannah Arnold as his 'wife'.”

“They're legal binding documents, Ben,” Abe cautioned. “A copy would have already been sent to the governor of Connecticut. Even if we burn this copy, we're going to have to find the other one and burn that too.”

“So,” Agent Strong said clasping his hands together, “we can't kill that son of a bitch yet.”

“No, but we can take out the fourteen soldiers he has with him,” Ben said, staring at the map for a moment longer before pushing it to the side to bring the three sketches to the forefront. “I do have an idea though, on how we may accomplish that.”

* * *

_Somewhere off the coast between the borders of Rhode Island and Connecticut_

 

“Yo ho! Yo ho! A pirates life for me!”

“Hart, we're not pirates!” Carrie said in an exasperated tone. “If you're going to do a proper sea shanty, you're going to have to learn them.” Caleb caught his descendant's glance over at him before she shrugged and started to belt out, “Safe and sound at home again, let the waters roar Jack! Safe and sound at home again, let the waters roar Jack!”

It was the Napoleonic War era shanty that she had taught him a while ago, and though he preferred Spanish Ladies, this was a longer one that would keep them roused and warmed for the time being as they rowed towards their destination. Joining in with the others in their own boats who also took up the shanty, he sang, “Long we've tossed on the rolling main, now we're safe ashore Jack! Don't forget your old shipmates--”

“Ack! Something just shat on me!” Hart exclaimed, breaking into the song.

As the echoes the sailors and members of the 2nd Light-Legions who had some experience in seamanship continued with the rest of the shanty, Caleb heard the fluttering of wings before a bird, a pigeon of all things, landed upon Hart's helmet, cooing as if it were an everyday occurrence. At this late a night, he thought that all birds would be roosting and sleeping.

“You got a pigeon on your head, Hart,” Carrie said, handing her oars over to a another corporal before carefully scrambling over to where the young enlisted woman was, who was glancing up before carefully removing her helmet. As Caleb and the corporal continued to row the boat, he saw his counterpart examine the helmet while the pigeon continued to stay perched upon it, cooing and generally not being afraid of anything.

“Oh wait, hey, I think this is the pigeon that General Tallmadge left in New Haven,” Hart said. “But I thought the tracker was implanted in Jerome...”

“Secondary one?” Carrie said, wrapping the pigeon carefully in her hands as she reached down onto its feet and slid a small note off. “I know how Tall-green-boy loves his contingencies,” he heard her mutter.

“Dude, the man has back ups for his back ups,” Hart said, then realized she was talking to an officer in such a casual tone. “Ma'am.”

“Relax, Hart,” she answered, as she unfurled the small note but then frowned. “Cache drop at the dead drop, Caleb. It's priority for General Washington and can't wait.”

“They got Simcoe?!” he asked, almost halting his rowing if it were not because of the constant motion that kept him going.

“Dunno, but they wouldn't send this pigeon if it were anything less than a priority.”

“All right, Hart, signal to the other boats to keep going to Stratford. We'll row ashore and drop you off, Carrie, and pick you back up in New London when we pass it,” he said.

* * *

_Boston_

 

“Father?”

Nathaniel looked up from his journal he was currently writing in, quill pausing mid-stroke as he saw his daughter enter the tiny dining room with some trepidation in her expression. Placing the quill down, he capped the ink and sat back, folding his hands. “Yes, Lottie?” he asked as he gestured for her to take a seat at the table.

She sat, but kept her hands on her lap instead of what she used to do, which was to immediately place it on the table in an eager manner. There was a change about her that he started to notice soon after he had arrived in Boston over the summer – she sat and carried herself more like her mother each day; refined, poised, and graceful. The peak of what he had seen in terms of lady-like mannerisms from her had been at the fete, as she danced with many gentlemen during the night or twittered away with the women of high society.

Many officers who had attended the fete and spoke of it later to him in an attempt to relive much more pleasant memories before the second invasion, had heaped praises as to how refined she had behaved, and how beautiful she was. He had felt proud of his daughter then, and especially when others spoke of her during that fete. Some spoke of the brave actions she took after the fete, but most did not want to remember such tragedy and carnage that had befallen their city. She was most definitely starting to grow more mature and lady-like, and he was starting to become uneasy with it.

“Will you be traveling with General Washington when he leaves?”

“Yes, I will be,” he stated, sensing that there was something else that his daughter wanted to discuss, but was not inclined to state it just yet. “Do you not feel safe here anymore? Do you want to move?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head slightly, “but we will not be able to even if a hundred men help us. Natalie cannot be moved until she has recovered.”

“Yes,” he said, nodding slightly, wondering just what exactly was on her mind at the moment. “I can ask General Washington to leave some men behind for protection, if it will help with your unease.”

“There is no need, Father,” she said, giving him a sad smile, “I understand that His Excellency will need every man that is able to wield a rifle and fight for our country and freedom. My concern is what will happen once they leave. I am nearing the end of my schooling, Mr. James is still injured and Lord only knows if he'll ever walk again even with a peg leg to help him, and Miss Margaret is engaged to General Arnold; she most definitely will be leaving her governess position when she is married.”

“Then what do you want to do, Lottie?” he patiently asked, suspecting that her answer would be the inevitable that he had been trying to prepare himself for, ever since he started properly teaching her about the world he lived in.

“I want to come with you, father. I want to help you help the Continental Army. I know that it is a dangerous life--”

“Are you prepared to do what Natalie did?” he cut in before she could get any further in her argument. “Are you prepared to step in and protect someone whom victory in this war depends on, to step in and give your life to a stranger that you may not even know of but yet is the most important asset we have? Are you willing to use whatever social ties you have with friends, family, even distant acquaintances to get information necessary and vital to a victory, or to betray those closest to you to ensure that the Continental Army has as much advantage possible over the British forces? Are you even willing to throw strangers you don't even know to the wolves, or to make them seem like a traitor or a turncoat even if they aren't? Are you--”

He stopped himself from pressing further as he saw unshed tears shining through his daughter's eyes, though he stopped himself from getting up and going over to her to give her a sympathetic pat on her hands. This was her choice to make, and all he could do was tell her the absolute truth, of what he had done in the past that got him here, and of what life was like as a diplomat and a spy – of what he suspected why she wanted to join him.

“You may think I am describing a monster,” he quietly said, briefly taking off his spectacles and rubbing the bridge of his nose before placing the spectacles back on, “but until you can accept this fact, I cannot allow you to join me.”

“Is-is that why,” she hiccuped but the tears still did not fall, “you have forbidden me from writing to any of the officers – to Major Tallmadge? Because you think they are all monsters as you have describe them to be just like you?” He opened his mouth to answer her, but she was not finished as she continued to say, “I don't believe that the Major is like you, Father. One can be a gentleman spy such as he. One does not need to deceive or manipulate so many close to him, to dishonor him or herself with this business.”

Nathaniel pressed his lips into a thin line before heaving a short sigh. “Do you remember when I told you I survived because of the Major?” She nodded. “I only survived because he sacrificed his father to ensure that I would not die.” He held up a hand to silence his daughter from whatever she was about to say, as he continued, saying, “His father, along with Natalie, I, and three others were being held hostage by the enemy last year. Five of us were to be hung unless the Major exchanged himself, and three others for four of the hostages. The sixth hostage, his father, was being held at gunpoint by a most villainous of a man. He did not have enough to bargain for all six of our lives. He took the third option and ordered his men to shoot through the ropes on the gallows, but that meant allowing his father to die at the hands of the enemy. He chose strangers over flesh and blood – over someone he dearly loved.”

He paused for a moment before sighing and saying, “If the same thing were to happen to me again, but I in the Major's father's shoes and you in the Major's position, would you do such a thing?”

His daughter was silent, the tears still brimming in her eyes but still unable to fall down her face. She tried to blink them away but then wiped her hands across her eyes, sniffling slightly before saying, “Any person we love can become a liability to us in this war, is that what you're telling me, Father?” He silently nodded. “Even more so for spies?” He nodded again. “And because of Major Tallmadge's position, it is a most precarious of one, is it not?” He gave her an expectant look. “Then how on earth did Mother agree to marry you if what you tell me is true? That you did all of those things, and that liabilities were not conducive to your work?”

“Because compared to the work your father did, it was easier for me to stomach and accept it than it was to remain in my own father's house,” the voice of his wife spoke up from the entrance to the kitchen. “David is watching over Natalie at the moment, dear,” she said, as he nodded to her words.

“There was also the fact that we both knew what our careers entailed, Lottie,” Elizabeth continued to say, stepping in and taking a seat next to their daughter. “Our marriage worked because we were willing to support each other in our individual endeavors. You are a daughter of an apothecary shop owner and an adviser to General Washington. While that may have some influence in society, how many men do you know of who would heartily support your more clandestine activities? How many were raised as you had been raised?”

“Not many,” Lottie murmured.

“You are still young, Lottie,” he said. “You have much ahead of you. Stay here for the winter, look after your mother, brother, and Natalie. When Natalie awakens, I urge you to talk to her, to listen to her, and to learn from her. She was raised in a similar manner as you had and I think you will be able to learn some valuable lessons from her. When spring comes, if she is feeling stronger and able to move, I will reconsider you joining me at the camp...but only if Natalie agrees to it.”

“But why, Father?” she asked, “Why should she make that decision? Surely you are not beholden to her as well?”

“No, I am not directly beholden,” he answered. “But in this curious business of espionage, I hold her as my equal. She was born and raised into this, and has had much, much more experience in the business than I do in the matters concerning the recruitment of spies. If you join us at Washington's camp, it will not be to aid me, but to be one of Washington's spies.”

* * *

“Sir, priority dispatch for you from Lieutenant Brewster.”

Washington looked up from the maps he was pouring over as his aides, Laurens, Hamilton, and Lafayette also turned their attention away from the map. The door opened and his manservant entered, carrying not a folded piece of parchment as was common with all messages from the Culper-Culpeper Ring, but a small cured leather canister of all things. Placing the canister down, his manservant left, and after the door closed, he swiped up the object and popped the top off.

Several sheets were rolled into it, and he carefully pulled it out, placing the canister to the side. Placing the sheets down, he spread the three topmost ones out before him, noting that they were sketches; with one of those sketches looked quite familiar. Behind the three sketches was a fully encrypted sheet written in such finely small penmanship that it would take some time to decode it. However, even without decoding the missive, he had an inkling as to what it entailed.

“Colonel Hamilton,” he said, glancing up from staring at the three sketches, “Please inform Colonel Rutherford that there will be a temporary stay in execution for both of the prisoners. I believe that we are not finished interviewing them.”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

As Hamilton left, he tapped on the missive before glancing over at Laurens, saying, “Get this decoded as swiftly as you can, Colonel Laurens.”

“Yes, sir,” Laurens nodded, stepping towards him and took the missive.

“And Marquis,” he said, focusing his attention on Lafayette, “Please prepare your Musketeers to guard our two prisoners during transport. Our destination will be Lieutenant General Washington's camp.”

“As you wish, Your Excellency.”

* * *

_New Haven, Late December 1778_

 

From where he was standing at the corner of the Green, he could see the row of eight houses bricked in red and standing proudly even in the night that was lit by the moon. Candles were burning in several windows, owing to the fact that the students living and learning inside the eight houses were most likely studying for the end-of-the-year exams. The twitch of Ben's lips curling upwards in a brief smile as fond memories that washed over him brought him a small amount of peace in the otherwise harrowing and dangerous work he, Abe, Anna, Selah, and Andrew had done thus far.

It had taken them quite a bit of a concentrated effort to locate and memorize where Simcoe's fourteen men were now blended. Five of them were now on Yale property, and four of them between the docks and the Arnold apothecary. Three were on the south end of the main street that took traders and and travelers through the city, and the other three were at the north end.

Taking one last look at his alma mater from a distance, he turned and pulled his jacket tighter around him as a chilly breeze bringing a light dusting of snow across his vision. Both he and Abe had wanted to strike a couple of days ago, during a snowstorm, but Andrew had cautioned them against it, citing that the idea he had planned to get rid of the fourteen was to make it look as natural as possible to not frighten the civilians too much. That and the man had stated that running around trying to shank people in the middle of a snowstorm was the most idiotic thing to do – Ben had to give him credit for that blunt statement towards Abe.

Barely anyone was out this bitterly cold night and with snow drifts piling up on the sides of buildings and especially in the corner, it would be a very quiet night. They would have to kill the fourteen very quietly, which meant they would have to get up close to their targets and stab them with blades. Any shot from a pistol or rifle would be heard half-way across the city. He knew that Selah would have no problem shooting or stabbing British soldiers, but Abe... he wasn't sure about Abe at all, even if his friend insisted on helping them. He was pretty sure that Abe had never shot much less stabbed anyone in his life, which was why he in particular was going to go with him on this mission. That and he had noticed that both Abe and Selah did not get along – they did not need complications from whatever personal matters were going on between the two.

The walk from the Green to the Bulldog's Tavern was not as long as he had anticipated, but it was not as short as he would have liked it either. Due to the passing storm, along with the fact that almost no one wanted to venture out for a drink even at this hour of the night, the tavern was temporarily closed, which made it easier for them to carry out what they were going to do tonight.

As he opened the door and slipped in, shutting the door behind him, he shook off the snow that had gotten stuck on his jacket while brushing some of it off of his hat and hair. The warmth of the tavern was a welcome from the bitter cold weather outside.

“They're in the back, sir,” the voice of Cicero, Culper Agent 355 Abigail's son stated as he looked up to see the young man standing behind the bar. The young man's mother was busy cleaning a mug and merely looked up, giving him a small smile before returning her attention to the task at hand.

“Thank you, Cicero,” he answered as he strode across the tavern and towards the kitchen in the back.

It was only until the spring that Abigail and Cicero were also temporarily living in the tavern and helping out, having been granted the emancipation papers they had been promised two years ago by Washington himself. After the new year and warmer months came, the two former slaves would be traveling elsewhere, and he, Ben, had seen fit to not reenlist Abigail into the Ring, since there was no point due to her cover being completely destroyed. The two would be free to go wherever they wished. Now though, the two, along with Anna, would be running the tavern for tonight, maintaining the pretense of being open for patrons if any actual patrons who wanted to drink came.

Entering the kitchen that doubled as a storage area for the tavern's food, he found Selah, Andrew, Anna, and Abe gathered around the large table, putting together what looked like thin, reed sticks. Anna was laying out several pieces of thick cloth and was carefully putting needles with small feathers tied to the end, similar to a bait, being put in neat rows on the cloth. However, the most remarkable thing was lying quite dead and coiled on the end of the table – a dead snake with a diamond-like head, light tan-brown in color with splotches of darker brown and black.

“Make sure you don't prick yourself with the needles, Major,” Andrew said in a light tone. “You could be in for a world of pain, and possibly kill yourself. They're coated in the copperhead's venom.”

“But snake bites take time to work and to kill,” he said, remembering a distinct memory of his brother Samuel being bitten by a snake such as the dead one that was lying on the table. Though Samuel had survived only because of the surgeon bled him out enough so that the poison did not spread, his brother had been in agony for the next few days while recovering. “How is this going to help us silence the fourteen quickly?”

“It's not,” the agent answered, “but if our victims are dosed enough, they should start sweating a lot, become delirious, and have their heart racing so that they feel extremely hot and cold at the same time. Nature will do the rest.”

“Ah,” he said, after a moment, nodding in understanding. It would be the snake's poison that would start the process, but it would be the bitter cold as they shed their clothes, or if they were lucky to catch some of Simcoe's men on the docks, the fall into the icy water that would kill them. “How close do we have to get to them to utilize these reeds that I'm assuming we blow into, to fire the needles?”

“Depends on how hard you can blow.”

“I have to ask, Agent Strong,” Ben said, accepting the long, hollowed reed that was handed to him by Abe, “have you done this before?”

“Yep,” the man answered. “First mission right out of Quantico. MI6 sent me down to South America, and there were still a few indigenous tribes who used this sort of thing. My mission parameters said nothing about using a blowgun, but I had to make it look like an accident. So I did. But since we might have complications, its best if we're also armed with daggers and knives.”

Satisfied with the answer, he collected a small batch of needles within one of the cloth and placed it into a pocket. Letting the blowgun lean against the nearest wall, he then removed his cold right foot from his shoe and plucked the small knife that had been hidden inside of it, out. Putting on his shoe again, he took a piece of twine and rolled up the left sleeve of his jacket before laying the flat of the blade across his forearm and tied it down. When that was secured, he rolled the jacket sleeve back down and picked up the blowgun.

“Blade formerly in your shoe, and now hidden on your forearm,” he heard Andrew stated, though there was an odd quality within the man's tone as he looked up to see the agent also securing his own weaponry. “One might think you're a veteran assassin in this business.”

“One might,” he said in a noncommittal tone, deciding against bringing out the small Walther PPK that was still resting snug within his jacket's outer pocket, along with the device that the future-Townsend had given him. There were only eleven bullets in the Walther and fifteen targets in total, but one of those bullets was most definitely reserved for Simcoe. After Simcoe confessed to his crimes and strong-arming of the Arnolds, Ben vowed to kill him – not only to protect his agents, but to avenge his father.

* * *

Mary clutched Thomas tighter towards her as she heard the gentle knock on the door before Abigail's gentle voice came through, saying, “Mrs. Woodhull, they're gone. You and your son can come down now.”

“T-thank you,” she said, slowly getting up and shuffled towards the door. Her husband and her had been in agreement for once since he had confessed to being a spy for Washington – she was sequestered here at the Strong's tavern for the duration of whatever this thing was to kill Simcoe and the fourteen men. “Abigail, please wait,” she said as she heard the footsteps of the former slave start to walk away.

“Yes, Mrs. Woodhull?” the woman said, opening the door.

“Would you please take Thomas down first?” she asked, “I'd like to search and fetch my embroidery without accidentally poking my son with the needle.”

“I will,” Abigail answered, smiling in a knowing manner and lifting Thomas from her.

“Thank you,” she said before the woman left. “I'll be down shortly.”

As soon as the former slave's footsteps could no longer be heard, Mary then sprung into action – snatching up her cloak and securing it over her dress before draping the hood over her head. She quickly and quietly left the room and descended to the first floor, peeking out and seeing no one currently manning the bar. She could hear Cicero's voice floating from the kitchen and softly entered behind the bar.

Kneeling down, she looked around and just as luck would have it, along with where she remembered where exactly Selah Strong had kept the rifle he had pulled out and pointed it at Andrew Strong and Samantha Tallmadge all of those months ago, she carefully unhooked it from its housing and drew it towards her. Checking the pan, she found that it was still full, which meant that there was already a musket ball in the rifle. Continuing to search, she saw a small satchel that looked like it had small balls within and a powder flask next to it. Taking the two, she stood back up and quietly hurried towards the entrance.

Footsteps approaching from the kitchen from either Cicero, Abigail, or Anna preceded her opening the door, but she managed to dash out before the three could see her. However, she did not stop there and started to run as fast as she could. Like Abraham, she thought killing the fourteen men that Simcoe had with him was a complete waste of time, but thanks to her husband's sleep-talk, she knew exactly what he and the others were going to do – and more importantly, where Simcoe was tonight. While the four men were off on their own mission, Mary thought it more practical to cut the head off the snake first.

As soon as she felt she was far enough from the tavern and that Anna would not pursue her, for she did not put it past that woman to run after her, she dashed into an alleyway and paused for a moment. Leaning against the ice-cold brick wall, she tried to slow her breathing as not only the cold air was making it hard for her to catch her breath, but also it was incredibly cold outside. The light breeze was not helping, but she hid the rifle behind her and under her cloak as she secured the satchel of musket balls and the powder flask to her hip.

Taking a few more deep but staggeringly cold breaths, she managed to compose herself enough to stand back up. Securing the rifle behind her back and still under her cloak, she then stepped out of the alleyway and started walking towards her destination with a purposeful stride. The port-city was empty at this time of night, and as she crossed the Green towards the street where the apothecary was located, she couldn't help but glance around.

She had walked this particular route many times, and even though she knew that the docks were just beyond the apothecary, she was also near enough to the Green that Simcoe's men at Yale would be able to hear the report of her rifle. Her only option after killing Simcoe from afar was to run as fast as she could towards the barnyard that was a few houses down from the apothecary. There was a small entrance to the barnyard that she was sure she could fit thought and hide in the rafters and hay if Simcoe's men came chasing after her.

There were two positions where she knew that she could shoot Simcoe, and both depended on where the man was tonight. One was in what she could only assume was the bedroom that the man shared with his 'wife', the other was a room she could only assume was either a second bedroom or a study of sorts where she had discreetly seen the man working at his desk several times over the past few months. Neither had any bushes to conceal her, but there were plenty of alleyways cast in the shadow of the moon where she could shoot from.

Shifting the rifle towards her side as she approached the apothecary, she saw that though the shop was closed, candles on the second floor were lit. Turning right, she walked back up towards the Green before slipping into an alleyway. Carefully navigating her way through the darkness, she emerged at a cross section and took a left that brought her back down towards the apothecary. As she approached the main intersection to the street and alleyway, she briefly flattened herself against the wall before taking a quick peek out again. There was no one up or down the street and even though the candle in the bedroom was lit, she could not see Simcoe's profile. The man was not in the bedroom.

Slipping back into the shadows, she hurried and made her way towards the second area. Doing the same thing as she did just minutes earlier, this time, she saw the faint profile of the man from the second floor window. Drawing the rifle out from under her cloak, she knew that she would have at most, two shots, and that her second one, if she missed on her first shot, would have to be extremely accurate. Bracing the butt of the rifle in the position that Abe had taught her to hold it at, she carefully raised it and stepped out from the shadows. Sighting down the barrel, she steadied her breathing as a sudden chill of the winter swept through her. But as quick as it came, it subsided and she took another deep breath before carefully swinging the rifle until the tip was pointed straight at the window and at Simcoe's head.

She fired.

* * *

Ben was not the only one to pause as the echoes of a rifle being shot tore through the crisp and cold air. It was much too close to be from the docks, and judging from where the sound had originated from, it sounded like it was near the apothecary of all place. “Fall back,” he ordered, catching the other three's eyes. “Drop the needles and blowguns. We need to get to the apothecary now.”

After the four of them had successfully killed the six guarding either end of the main thoroughfare, though Abe had to kill one via a stab to the man's back, they had met on the north end of the Yale campus, deciding before hand that the Green was much too exposed of a place to begin their approach. Ben was glad that Simcoe's men did not even attempt to pose themselves as students of the college, but the five still wandered in and around the area. At night though, the five were usually gathered at the nearest ale house to the college to warm up for a bit before the tavern closed. It was when the five were kicked out for the night that Ben, Abe, Andrew, and Selah would have ambushed the five.

“Simcoe couldn't have shot his 'wife', could he?” Abe muttered, quite appalled.

“Or worse yet, she could have shot herself over the debts that he got her family into,” Andrew muttered as the reeds were quickly snapped broken and clattered to the floor and were followed by the pieces of cloth that contained the needles.

“Let's hope that some intrepid but drunken student does not stumble on these needles and start poking his friends with it,” Selah darkly stated before the four of them hurried away from the college.

“There are worse ways to cure a hangover headache,” Andrew lightly answered.

Despite the situation, Ben could not help but gape slightly at the agent, his expression mirroring that of Selah and Abe as well. However, it seemed that he and the others were in agreement to _not_ ask what else the agent had done besides potentially poking himself with snake poison to cure headaches from drinking too much. But that strange thought was quickly dashed as they wove in and around the alleyways, slipping on the mud and ice-covered ground as they raced towards where the sound of the rifle fire had come from.

Weaving through alleyways, Ben was the first to skid to a halt as he emerged from an alleyway to see a sight that was nearly unbelievable... if he had not been exposed to the strangeness that had governed his life for nearly two full years now. Behind him, he heard Abe, Selah, and Andrew also come to a halt as the three also peered out.

“Uh, Abe, who the bloody hell did you marry?” he whispered, nearly hissing his words as he saw Mary Woodhull a couple of alleyways down, reloading a rifle that was still partially smoking.

“What in God's name... Mary?!” was all Abe could whisper in utter disbelief as he glanced over to see his friend with a gobsmacked expression upon his face.

However, neither them nor Selah or Andrew could further comment on the quite mad idea that meek-looking, frightened but determined to put on a brave face, Mary Woodhull had actually taken a shot at Simcoe. Warning bells from the church started the ring in the air, drawing theirs and Mary's attention away. At first, Ben thought the bells were for the rifle shot, but as they kept ringing and distant shouts started to rise, he knew that it was most definitely not related to the shot that Abe's wife had taken.

“Get her back to the tavern. I'll go see what's going on,” he ordered. Even before waiting for a confirmation, he slipped away and hurried towards the Green. Concerned civilians were spilling out into the streets, some in their night clothes, others in various states of undress and getting ready for bed.

It was near the Green that the first of the small militia that New Haven had garrisoned here started shouting, “To arms! The British are coming! The British are coming!”

Ben raced across the Green and towards the docks. There was only one place in which the British could launch an attack from, considering people who lived near the docks were already running towards the north side of the town. At the edge of the Green, he stopped and peered out past the civilians who were trying to get away. A thick fog blanketed the docks and beyond the water, marking it just like how the Continentals invaded Trenton, only this time, it was the British who were taking advantage of the weather and conditions. New Haven only had about 3,500 souls living within, which meant that the militia was comparably small. Considering how much the British could potentially throw at them across the Sound, the port-city was doomed.

“Tallmadge!” he heard Andrew shout and turned around, only to reach up and catch two rifles being thrown at him. Slinging one over his shoulders, he hefted the other one and quickly checked the pan to see that it was full.

“Where's Selah and Abe?” he asked, as civilians, mainly women and children continued to stream by them. The sounds and sight of the militia and civilian men with arms were being roused and formed around them.

“Getting their families, along with 355 and Cicero to safety at Yale,” the agent stated, also double checking the rifle he currently held. “Got these from the local armory. They're giving them to anyone who can wield a rifle – Yale students as well.”

“Considering what the British can push across the Sound, this is Trenton all over again, except that they now have the advantage,” he muttered, accepting the small pouch of musket balls and powder flask from the agent. “If you see Simcoe, shoot him dead. We don't have time to waste on extracting a confession. This battle will draw out the Ring and right now, they're more important than General Arnold.”

“Understood, sir,” the man curtly said. In a more flatly sarcastic tone, Ben heard him say, “Well, this is one way to ring in the New Year. So... Happy New Year, America. At least this didn't happen on your birthday.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4 July 2016, Historical Note: In real-life, New Haven was attacked by the British on 5 July 1779... one day after the 3rd anniversary of the Declaration of Independence. Thankfully, the city was not torched, unlike Fairfield or Norwalk.


	28. The Culper Identity (Pt. 2)

**Chapter 28: The Culper Identity (Pt. 2)**

 

“To arms! To arms!”

The bells were still tolling and the militia forming their lines when the sounds of boots splashing loudly in water and marching upon planks of wood were heard as the first of the British troop lines started to land with the fog partially covering them from view. The thundering of hooves from a horse racing down the Green and leaping over makeshift barriers of wagons, barrels and the like that were still trying to be set up caused Ben to look up.

“Reverend Daggett?” he said in surprise as he saw the former president of Yale when he had been studying there, riding out to catch up with the militiamen.

However, his attention was drawn away from the reverend as he heard Abe shout, “Ben!”

“Here, catch!” he said, turning slightly as he threw Abe the second rifle he had while Andrew tossed another pouch of musket balls and a powder flask to Abe. Selah had also arrived, bearing his own rifle and supplies, but Ben knew that he could not worry about his agents, not when the city was in grave danger. However, that glimpse back at Abe and Selah also showed him the truth of Andrew's words – there was a rather sizable group of students streaming out from the college, bearing arms and following in the wake of the former Yale president.

While he knew that the militia had some training, the armed civilians and students did not and that made them an unknown quantity in terms of following orders and holding a firing line. The British were coming, but a gut feeling within him told him that Britannian forces were most likely integrated or worse yet, completely disguised within the invading force. New Haven would be easily torched by the advanced rifles, but he knew that he could not force them to evacuate – not until the first volley had been fired on either side – and by then, it would be too late.

“Selah, with me!” he ordered, turning back and quickly made his way down the Green, knowing that he had no other choice but to join the front lines and pray to God that perhaps these were only British forces and _not_ Britannian forces. “Arrange whomever you can in lines. Abe, fall back with the students. Andrew, reconnoiter the area.”

He heard Abe splutter in response to his orders as both Selah and Andrew gave a curt, “Sir!” in response to his orders. However, he ignored his friend's protests and just before he got to the front lines where militiamen, along with Reverend Daggett who was issuing orders to the lines, Daggett had already ordered the first line to fire. In their haste, the line completely missed and fell short of their targets, but as the cold breeze swirled snow across their visions before blowing some of the fog away from the docks, Ben's eyes widened in surprise at just how many British troops were coming ashore.

Lines thick and full of British blood-red coats were marching towards them, and as the last of the first ten boats were finally emptied, there were at least ten, if not more behind those queuing to shore. The combined numbers the Patriots had at New Haven were severely outnumbered, and dare he think it, outmatched. With no advanced weapons of their own, or even one of those robotic horses to ride for help, only a miracle from Heaven above could grant them victory now.

* * *

“Fuck I can't even feel my face anymore,” Caleb heard Hart curse as he saw her visibly shake for a moment before attempting to slap her cheeks with her mitten-covered hands. Giving up after a few attempted slaps, he saw her pick up the binoculars again and peer through them.

“Just keep talking and you'll probably start feeling it a little again, Hart,” Carrie said as she lazily pulled on the oars for a moment. “Just not loudly though. I can also use the verbal exercise for warmth, so shoot away with any questions you have, like how the hell are we getting home? Answer: I have no fucking idea.”

Caleb saw a rather wide grin appear on Hart's face before she settled down some more into her perch on the aft end of the boat, asking, “Okay, so of all the places that Britannia picked, how is it that we got transported to the First Revolutionary War? I mean, wouldn't it be a hell of a lot simpler to go back to the French and Indian War... or sorry, Seven Years War, and just mess up history from that point?”

“I have no idea, Hart, and that's one of those, why the hell did you even ask me when you should know that I have no idea questions,” Carrie answered, shrugging as both she and Caleb pulled on the oars of their whaleboat.

“Okay, fine. Can I start a fanclub for ol' George and Georgia?”

“A what?” Caleb asked, puzzled.

“Fanclub, you know... cheering circle.... ah, never mind. I'll just settle for being yours and Major Tallmadge's most ardent admirer,” the enlisted woman said in a flippant tone.

“Oh, look at that, she finally admits that she has a huge crush on you,” Carrie ribbed as Caleb couldn't help but grin. “Too bad you already have Genevieve.”

“ _Admirer_ ,” Hart insisted. “There's a difference!”

Carrie snorted, “Not in this day and age, Hart. At the rate these two fellows traverse through all of the major and minor towns, villages, and cities, they're probably dragging a shit ton of admirers with them.”

“Uh, hey, I'm still here?” Caleb interrupted his descendant with a slightly hesitant tone in his voice. “While I accept your admiration and adoration Hart, I have to disagree with the lady Lieutenant here about my line. It's pretty short – at least I think its short. But Ben's... sheesh that's a long line of admirers.”

The rather hilariously sage nod of both Carrie and Hart bobbing their heads up and down caused him and the other enlisted soldier at the bow of their boat to quietly laugh. “You said it, Caleb,” Carrie said after a moment. “I mean, if Tall-blue-boy's letters from Philadelphia last year were anything to go by, he's probably got more in Boston and elsewhere squirreled away.”

Chuckling, because he could not outright bark in laughter due to the relative quiet they needed to keep while on patrol, he smiled to himself. He had not told Carrie about what Ben had stirred up in Boston during his exile from camp, but he was sure that it would cause a lot of laughter and good-natured jests to be said by his counterpart to Ben. Come spring, if they had a moment to rest in a proper camp, then he would tell her, but right now, Ben's big heroic action at the schoolhouse during the false schoolmaster Trevelyan affair was still kept secret by him.

Speaking of Ben, he didn't even know where his friend currently was, last catching a glimpse of him in the aftermath of the assassination attempt on Washington in Boston. It was only after two militiamen who had hauled a Robb Townsend to where he had been that he suspected something was amiss. He knew that Ben would not leave traitors or turncoats with anyone else; or in the case of the future-Townsend, the man had not even been a Culpeper agent at all and was strictly in the employ of MI6 until claiming that he sympathized and wanted to join the rebellion. Caleb certainly didn't believe the man when he had first stated that, and from the looks of the rather nasty-looking bruise that had been swelling up on Townsend's face back in Boston, it seemed that Ben had not either.

The Benjamin Tallmadge he knew would have never left such an important asset or prisoner with him, at least not lightly – Ben liked to be hands-on and in the thick of it with all of this Intelligence, espionage, and future-people business. And now, all he suspected was that Washington knew _where_ Ben had gone for the winter, but deigned to tell him or anyone else for the matter; that made him a little worried and annoyed. He hoped that his friend was not out in the wilderness undertaking something for Washington that was going to be quite mad. It was never fun when Ben did something mad without him present.

A happy silence fell between all of them in the whaleboat as he and his counterpart continued to pull on the oars, as his thoughts drifted about Ben. Hart and the other enlisted soldier briefly returned to their duties with the binoculars, sufficiently warmed up. With a thick bed of fog up and down the coast of their patrol route from Stratford to New Haven, they relied not only on spotters to see where they were rowing via the binoculars, but also to make sure that no British or Britannian ship was trying to be opportunistic.

“Sir!” the soldier at the bow suddenly hissed. “Thought I saw some movement at eleven-o-clock! Maybe about a quarter to one-third of a mile away.”

“Hart, signal to squadron that we're going in for a closer look,” Caleb immediately ordered as both he and Carrie immediately pulled a bit harder on the oars. They did not want to give away their position by pulling fast and hard, but neither could they languidly make their way up the Sound. He was just glad that there was a mechanism within the binoculars that enabled what Carrie had described as 'Morse code' or a series of predetermined blinking lights that could be seen and read by those possessing binoculars, but those without could not see.

Not fifteen minutes after they had started rowing at a faster pace did the soldier at the bow hiss, “Sir, feather the oars!”

Both he and his counterpart immediately stopped rowing as they held the oars broadside up, drifting in the icily-cold waters of the Sound. He could not hear anything except for the shift of clothes from those seated in the boat with him, along with his and Carrie's own breathing that was a bit heavy for the work they had done. “Anything?” he whispered as he glanced back to see that the soldier was now peering out on the port side of the boat.

“British soldiers crossing the Sound! I think they're headed to New Haven!”

“How many?” he demanded.

“I don't know, but I think that's the last of the boats.”

“Shite,” he cursed. Abe, Anna, Selah, and the descendant named Andrew Strong were there, and considering the last time he was at New Haven to barter for supplies, he knew that the militia at the port-city was quite small. He wouldn't put it past that there were most likely Britannian soldiers among those invading from Long Island. Because of the limited supplies that they had, none of them had their laser rifles on them, having left it with the rest of the 2nd Light-Legions who were along the Naugatuck – all were armed with flintlock rifles and pistols. They didn't even have the robotic horses since their mission was one of relative stealth and if need be, they needed to blend in with privateers and the like that also trawled the Sound. The binoculars were the only piece of advanced technology they possessed in the squadron.

“Signal squadron to make for the coast of New Haven. Hart, signal to one of the boats to get their arse to New London and get Creighton's gunboat down here,” he ordered.

“Yes, sir,” both of the enlisted soldiers snapped to as he and Carrie heaved on their oars to turn the boat towards the coast of Connecticut. They had orders to make sure that the assassins did not escape the 'net' strung out along the Naugatuck River and to the coast of the state, but he would be damned if he did not try to save Abe and the others first.

* * *

The cacophony of glass shattering that was mixed in with the _pwot-pwot_ of British-fired musket balls hitting brick and wood, along with the scattered answer of militia and civilians still firing back drowned out most of the cries of pain from those who were unluckily hit. While most of the civilians had been evacuated from this particular building on Yale grounds, a few brave souls stayed, taking up arms or helping the soldiers who had barricaded themselves within the robust building. This was the first of the eight column of houses in the college grounds, and Ben thought it ironic that he would now be taking shelter within the area where he had lived and learned in during his college years.

As soon as the staccato of fire from the British volley stopped for one blessed moment, he and a few others immediately poked their rifles out of the shattered glass and broken windows. Taking careful but quick aim, he fired, managing to hit one of the redcoats in his center column marching three-quarters of the way across the Green, in the center. Strung along nearly the entire length of the Green were three columns of three, lines of two rows each, and their commander riding behind the column. Naphatali Daggett was being prodded by soldiers to ride along side the commander of the forces, but beyond that, there were even more British emerging from the thick fog and smoke that billowed across the southern portion of the port-city. While the redcoat pitched down into the ground, dead or mortally wounded, the advancing line did not falter, even as many more in the front were wounded on their arms, legs or fell dead as well.

But their momentary reprieve was gone not a second after the British lines were assaulted upon, another volley from the British columns east and west, at five units each with in lines of two, was unleashed. Ben managed to duck back into cover behind the solid brick wall that was in between two open windows in the nick of time, but as the whistling sounds of musket balls, along with the shattering glass filled the air again, this time, there was a cry that was closer to him.

“President Stiles!” one of the students who had been studying at the college, but took up arms as soon as the bell started tolling earlier, shouted.

“Pull him away from the window!” he ordered as he saw that the current president of Yale had been hit in the arm. “Anna!”

He caught a glimpse of Anna, who had finished bandaging another wounded soldier before she scuttled towards where the wounded president and students. She had stubbornly refused to evacuate with the others towards the north, and instead, started to help the wounded as well as reload rifles when needed. Surprisingly, it seemed that the boldness that Mary had displayed earlier was no fluke either as she also tended to the wounded, but she did not reload rifles as Anna did, deciding to stay as close to Abe as possible. Cicero and Abigail were the only ones of the little group to heed his urging to get to safety, taking Mary and Abe's child, Thomas, with them.

As he finished reloading his rifle, two more volleys from the approaching British struck the building. They could not hold this position for long, and Ben knew that the men were faltering in their resolve to fight. Not even he would be able to rally them back to full strength as the firefight dragged on, and he knew that by morning, they would have to surrender. But it seemed that as of now, they still had some strength left to fight and they were not going to give up New Haven that easily.

Taking a quick peek back out in the momentary silence, he saw another row of British soldiers emerge from the fog and smoke, marching after the first column, but it was the first line of soldiers and sight of a particular person near the end of the line that made him momentarily seize. “Simcoe!”

“Where?!” Andrew demanded at the same time both Abe and Selah also voiced their exclamations.

“Middle of the Green--” he began, but had to duck back into cover as the east and west British columns fired again. Looking down towards where the three were also hiding as best as they could behind tables, chairs, bookcases, and beds, he continued to say, “Behind the commander of the first advancing column. Eight civilians and Simcoe on our left side.”

He saw Andrew take a daring peek in the midst of the volleys, before the man ducked back into cover, saying, “Damn. The first column will be all over us before he can get into range.”

“Abe, Anna,” he began after a moment, knowing that he had no other choice, “you _have to go_. You have to get out of here--”

“Ben--” Anna started, looking up from where she was wrapping a thick piece of cloth around Ezra Stiles's arm.

“That's an order,” he insisted, shaking his head before she could fully protest.

“Yeah?” Abe challenged, “Well, might I remind you, Major, that we're not a part of your army. You can't order--”

“Abraham--” Mary began.

“Selah, Andrew,” Ben interrupted all of them, glaring at Abe, “get them to safety--”

The whistling sound followed by a loud boom and explosion that shook even the building he and the others were barricaded in silenced anything else that was going to be said. As swift as the surprising cannonade had landed, it was quickly followed by two more thumps and explosions. Screams and the yells of the British ranks being broken by cannonade filled the air as the sounds of their unit commanders and of the overall commander tried to turn them around to face a seemingly new threat.

Ben was not the only one to peer out of the broken windows, coughing as the thick smoke all but obscured everything upon the Green. However, the sounds of the marching British were no longer advancing, and instead, he could hear their footsteps start to turn back. Something at the docks or at the southern edges of the port-city was turning the British back, and a well of hope sprang forth – had Comte d'Estaing's squadron of ships been traversing the Sound and saw the raid happening?

“On me!” he rallied as soon as a bitterly cold breeze thinned out the smoke enough for him to see that his assessment was indeed, quite correct. They were seeing the blood red backs of the British soldiers. Snatching up what was left of a powder flask laying at his feet and the satchel of musket balls, he scrambled up, not even bothering to heed the bleeding cuts and shallow wounds that he had received from shrapnel and near-misses. “Drive them to the docks!”

A rousing, hoarse cheer accompanied him moments later as the sounds of the militiamen and students who were able to still walk and fire their rifles followed him. As he and the others ran out of the building, he glanced over to see that others, civilians mainly, who had been hiding within the buildings that surrounded the northern part of the Green were also pouring out. They had knives, pitchforks, even simple legs of tables or chairs – and they were charging towards the British.

Two more thunderous explosions on the Green from the cannonades being fired made the fool-hardy civilians pause in their charge, allowing Ben to shout, “Form rank and lines!” Those who could, hurried to form a semblance of a line as the backs of the British slowly turned to face their charge out into the open.

“Aim!” he yelled, bringing up his own rifle as well as he saw the lobsterbacks scramble to bring their weapons to bear.

“Fire!” he bellowed.

* * *

_January 1779, three weeks after the Battle of New Haven..._

 

The air tasted of salt and smelled like dead fish, but it was quite crisp and cold, which meant that any breeze would be able to whisk away the smell and taste, but it seemed that the weather did not want to cooperate. Abe tolerated it, but the port-city was beginning to smell quite unpleasant, which added to the numerous dead that had been exposed from burial by the cannonades that had shelled the Green weeks ago. There was also the slow recovery of the city to contend to, which meant overcrowding in places that normally were not overcrowded as things were being rebuilt. But if there was one thing he had been grateful, was that an inferno in the city during the Patriot reinforcements' arrival had not been started.

Another ankle-high layer of snow had fallen sometime during the night, making it impossible for workers to even begin digging and filling the holes that the offshore cannonades from the Continental gunboat had rendered into the hard ground. That gunboat had saved those Patriots in New Haven from being slaughtered or captured. With the very timely arrival of Caleb and reinforcements from Ben's forces who had been patrolling the Sound, the British troops had all but surrendered in a matter of mere minutes after he and the others had joined Ben in his rally.

All in all, a little under 2,600 British troops had invaded the port-city, led by General William Tryon, Governor of New York. Tryon and officers under his command had been sequestered into a house that was under constant guard, while the soldiers were being kept chained in tents that were dotting the outskirts of the town. Members of Ben's forces and a few militiamen were keeping an eye out on those in the outskirts while a trusted group guarded the officers' house. The only exception to the rule was Simcoe and his eight men, who had been sequestered to parts unknown, or at least Caleb would not tell him where the bastard and the cohorts were.

As for Ben, Abe had not spoken to him since their victory, though he had seen him often around the Magistrate's office, having set up his command post in an empty office in the building. Most of the time though, he had seen a pinched look or frown on Ben's face, and decided that leaving his friend alone was much better than getting into a yelling match and saying everything that he, Abe, wanted to say about how New Haven was almost exactly like Setauket all over again. Abe was starting to think that wherever Ben went, really bad omens or trouble followed him, and that was not to speak of what he had heard happen in Boston last autumn.

Martial law had been implemented for the time being, with Ben apparently in charge for now, but there was word in the streets that it was only a temporary measure until the Continental Army could move the prisoners out. With a heavy amount of snow blanketing the region, that was not to be happening soon. Still, even with no sight of Simcoe for the time being, Abe knew that he and the others of their Ring had escaped detection by the skin of their neck.

He blew out a breath as he rubbed his cold hands together. There was also the matter of Mary and what she had done during the night they were supposed to have assassinated Simcoe. While a part of him was oddly proud of what she had done, or tired to do, another part of him was completely terrified at the prospect that the woman he had married out of obligation to his brother's promise, was not who he thought she was. In the quiet and safety of their temporary room at the Strong's tavern, since their home was among those greatly damaged by the British, they had quietly but vehemently argued for a few days and nights about what had happened.

While nothing about that night had been resolved, it seemed that they were in mutual agreement for now to leave it alone and return to what they had been doing. However, he couldn't help but notice with more interest and detail at everything she now did – how she cooked, how she cleaned, and especially how she cared for Thomas. It seemed that Simcoe's arrest had lifted a great amount of burden from her shoulders. She was a little more open with her actions, a little more light, and seemed to be a little less distant towards him. He welcomed it, but with caution.

As he crossed a portion of the Green that had not been damaged or was filled with militiamen, soldiers, and some civilians trying to figure out a way to properly rebury the dead without having to wait for Spring to arrive, he paused and glanced up at the Magistrate's building for a moment. While he still clerked there, he had found it extremely odd that the Magistrate, Percy Clayton, himself had been sequestering himself within his own office for a large amount of time – especially after Abe and others who clerked there had specifically heard Ben demand a certain document concerning land purchases by Hannah Arnold Graves. He didn't know what Clayton was doing, sequestering himself, but each time Ben had legal questions concerning not only the land purchase documents but others that he was also apparently perusing, the man had merely sent his most senior clerk, Jacob Knobbs, to answer the questions.

The whinny of two horses on the far side of the Green caught his and a few others' attention. Abe blinked in surprise as he saw that it was not typical couriers who had ridden into the center of the town but rather a Continental general and his aide who had. The aide dismounted first before snatching a small object off of the back of his horse and placing it at the feet of where the general would be dismounting. He realized that it was a step-stool of sorts and after the general dismounted, his cloak flapping behind him, the aide seemingly handed the general a cane of sorts before scuttling away with the horses and step-stool.

Surprisingly, the Magistrate's office was not the general's first destination as Abe and those who had seen the general arrive watched him disappear behind a large building and most likely make his way down a few streets and alleyways. Just as Abe decided that he should let Ben and the Magistrate know that a Continental general had arrived, the mysterious general reappeared, emerging into the ruined Green with a woman following him. He realized with a start that the general was none other than General Arnold, for the woman following him was Hannah Arnold Graves.

He was rooted to the spot as he watched Arnold and Arnold's sister cross the Green, heading straight towards the Magistrate's office. There seemed to be an extremely thunderous expression upon Arnold's face, and he wished that he had not been dallying his time – he should have immediately gone to Ben and let him know of the general's arrival. However, it was only after Arnold and Mrs. Graves entered Clayton's office and the door snapped shut that he shook himself out of his fugue.

Startled passerby were staring at the building, but Abe was very curious as to how what he and the others had uncovered about Simcoe and his men in the port-city would play out. Fortunately, he had an excuse to be inside of the office, and though he wanted to go back to the tavern to let the others know about Arnold's arrival, he thought it more prudent to follow the general into the building.

~~~

“Where's Major Tallmadge?!”

Ben glanced up from the letter he was currently writing as he heard the angry roar of General Arnold beyond the closed door to the office he sat in. While he was quite surprised that Arnold was here, he supposed that he should not be, after all, since the surrender and arrest of all British troops, a certain lady had been asking to see her 'husband' nearly every day. His answer to Miss Arnold's request to see Simcoe was an emphatic 'no' every time she had either submitted a petition or appeared in person in front of him.

It was only a matter of time before he knew that General Arnold would be involved in Hannah Arnold's affairs, and Ben had hoped that he would have resolved the legality and issues that plagued the Arnold's apothecary and debts before that day came. It looked like he was now out of time.

“In-in through t-that door, s-sir,” the frightened squeak of Magistrate Clayton issued from beyond the closed door.

He only had a moment to place his quill down before the door slammed opened and in walked, or rather, half-hobbled in an angry gait, General Arnold. “General Arnold, sir,” he said, pushing his chair back and standing up. Not surprisingly, Miss Arnold followed her brother in, but thankfully closed the door behind them. “I didn't expect His Excellency to send a nominal commander to take over governing duties so soon. What may I do for you, sir?”

“Never you mind that, Tallmadge,” the general brusquely answered, stopping before his desk. “Where are the papers?”

Though he was tempted to feign ignorance in response to such blatant rudeness that the general had shown to him and most likely to the others in the Magistrate's building, he did not. He still admired the courageous man just enough to know that this was a concern of his too, and so said, “I have them here--” he tapped the rather large stack of legal books, notes, and the documents that had been piled on the right top corner of his desk, “--and have been working to clear your sister's name from them, sir. If you would please, give me--”

He didn't get to finish is plea as Arnold roughly snatched the first few pieces off of the pile. “Keep your nose _out_ of mine and my family's affairs, Tallmadge,” the man snapped at him.

Ben kept silent, biting the inside of his lower lip to prevent himself from verbally lashing out as he watched the general quickly read through the land purchasing documents and scan the map. After a few minutes, Arnold looked back up, but far from being calm, there was an even more furious look in the man's eyes. “Your arrest and incarceration of Mr. Graves is unjust,” Arnold began, “he is a Patriot who was coerced--”

This time, Ben could not keep silent as he stated in a dangerously low tone, “He is an agent of Major John Andre of the British Intelligence, _sir_.”

“What?”

“Captain John Graves Simcoe,” he answered. “That's Mr. Shaun Graves's true name. He was formerly based in Setauket as part of the British garrison there and had led a raid into Connecticut three years prior. He was captured by my men in an ambush but was exchanged during a prisoner swap shortly thereafter. Since then, he had come into the employ of Major Andre.”

He didn't know if the Simcoe he had was the actual Captain Simcoe, but right now, it didn't matter. Both were agents of Director and Major Andre, and because neither he nor Washington could trust Deputy Director Simcoe's somewhat helpful actions in New York, he had to write him off as a useless asset. His only hope was that what he had stated for Arnold to hear was enough to shake the man out of his reverie. He did not want to get into a more complicated explanation.

“That's absurd. Shaun Graves is a merchant with connections to traders in South Carolina and Georgia,” Arnold said a moment later before turning to Miss Arnold and said, “Show Tallmadge your husband's letter.”

“Letter?” he questioned as the woman stepped forward and handed him a folded piece of parchment.

“Personal one, if you must, Tallmadge,” Arnold said. “It explains why he was absent for the greater part of the summer. As for your claim that Mr. Graves is this Captain Simcoe, he is not. I saw this Captain Simcoe of yours during the Rhode Island battles, specifically as he was fleeing with his men when we took Newport. _You_ , on the other hand, were absent. Where were you when we took Newport, Major?”

“Wounded, sir,” he stated, but did not elaborate as he opened the letter and started reading through it. As he read through the letter, a frown started to appear on his face – the letter was practically a solid alibi for Simcoe's disappearance over the three month period that Abe and the others said that they had not seen a hide or hair of Simcoe and his men. As soon as he finished, he folded the letter back up and handed it back to Miss Arnold, asking, “You saw Simcoe at Newport, sir?”

“Yes. Now I want this man released within the next hour and a proper apology given. You, Tallmadge, you will report to General Scott at Springfield and stay there for the remainder of the wintering period.”

His mind raced with all sorts of possibilities that intersected with what he knew thus far. He could not release Simcoe, no matter how solid of an alibi he had, but yet he could not directly disobey a general's orders. Instead, after a moment's contemplation and thought, he said, “Sir, if you and Miss Arnold here--”

“Mrs. Graves,” Arnold insisted.

“If you would like to both explain the situation to Mr. Graves, I shall have the necessary paperwork completed for his release within the hour. Please allow me to show you where he is being kept.”

“That's acceptable, Major,” the general answered.

~~~

“Dear God, I wonder what is going on in there?”

“Don't know,” Abe murmured as he and Knobbs, along with a few other curious clerks in the building peeked out of their offices. They all had heard the rise and fall of angry voices issuing from where Ben's office was, but Abe was worried about what exactly Ben was saying to Arnold that was most likely about Simcoe. However, with so many eyes in the building staring at the closed door, he dared not to even approach to eavesdrop.

The door was suddenly opened, and like mice caught out stealing scraps of food, Knobbs and the other curious clerks immediately disappeared into their offices. Unfortunately for Abe, Knobbs had also prematurely closed the door to their shared office, leaving him high and dry, standing out in the alcove with absolutely nothing in his hands or excuse to be out here. Thinking quickly, just as he saw Ben, Arnold, and Arnold's sister emerge from the office, he strode across the hall and foyer, acting as if he were heading to the second floor to retrieve some volumes of books and the like.

“Ah, Mr. Underhill,” Ben called out, and it took Abe a moment to remember that his alias while living in New Haven was Abraham Underhill. The sudden arrival of General Arnold had all but made almost forget his and his family's thin cover.

He stopped at the foot of the stairs and turned around, clasping his hands behind him. “Yes, Major Tallmadge?” he asked, managing to focus his attention on Ben who looked as ever outwardly calm, though there seemed to be a storm brewing in his friend's eyes.

“If you would please, pass word for Mr. Knobbs to draw up the necessary documents pertaining to the release of Mr. Graves, and have him gather the necessary signatures needed for his pardon, I'd much appreciate it. I shall need to review and sign it within the hour.”

“Um, I can do that myself, sir,” he answered, as he saw a look of warning pass through Ben's eyes. “Knobbs is a bit busy at the moment, so if you would please, allow me to gather them.”

“Very well,” Ben answered, nodding and brushing by him. As Abe turned slightly to see him, Arnold, and Arnold's sister exit the building, he heard Ben echo again, “Remember, within the hour, Mr. Underhill.”

The door to the Magistrate's building closed more softly than Abe could imagine, but it was only because he was hearing the rapid thumps of his own beating heart – beating with fear. Ben could not stop Simcoe's release, and given the disposition of both the British officer and Britannian spy, Abe was sure that there would be hell to pay. He and the others had to get out of New Haven as fast as they could.

~~~

Ben clenched his cloak tighter around him to keep it from billowing out and accidentally smacking into civilians and a few patrolling militiamen as he led the Arnolds to where Simcoe and his eight men were being kept. As soon as he had been reunited with his unit in the aftermath of the battle three weeks ago, one of his men from the 2nd Light-Legions had gone back up to Boston to retrieve his uniform. All pretenses of what his objective here was gone in the aftermath of the battle, and since then, he had not had the time to devote to search for the two assassins.

In the little time that he had to himself, Caleb had informed him of Washington's deployment of the 2nd Light-Legions along the Naugatuck River, to create a net of sorts to try to prevent the assassins from escaping. But since then, he had not heard of any news that pointed to success, and after the months he had spent here in the port-city, he knew that there was almost no chance that he would be able to find the assassins anymore, at least not in the city.

Now, Simcoe was also to go free, and Ben could feel the frustration building within him – all of his work, all of what he had been doing here, trying to hunt down Simcoe to stop him and save his agents – it was all for naught. All because General Arnold believed that the man was innocent, that Simcoe was not Simcoe and was just mistakenly identified. He hoped that his last gamble, to show that there was a true identical image between the Captain Simcoe that Arnold had seen in Rhode Island, and this man was enough proof. Only a select few of those within the Culper Ring and Washington knew that there were two Simcoes running around the northeast, and if the other one was still indeed, being given the run around by Philadelphia Culper Agent Creighton, then this gamble would have to be the one to break Arnold out of his staunch stance.

Soon, but not long enough for him, they arrived at a modest-looking house with a cellar. While unremarkable compared to other houses in the area, the only sign that it was unusual was the fact that there were two of his men standing at the base of the cellar doors, looking quite nonchalant. To keep others from discovering that there were prisoners down below, Ben had ordered his men to rotate around the house and area every two hours – to blend in with the other patrolling militiamen. The occupants of the house had kept the silence and tolerated prisoners living in their cellar after a very generous sum and offer had been made to them.

“Sir,” the two current guards snapped to attention as soon as Ben and the Arnolds approached.

“Unlock the chains and open the doors, Corporal,” he said, gesturing for them to do so.

The irons wrapped around the cellar doors were the strongest that he could find at the nearest smithy, and he had had the blacksmith create a lock strong enough that it belonged more on a whaling ship than on someone's cellar door. As the first man unlocked and dragged the wrapped chain off, the other had run off to fetch a torch. As soon as the man came back, Ben took the torch and took a step back as the corporal opened the door.

It was dark in the cellar, with only the light from the slats of the wooden floor above shining very little down below, but even before he took a step down into the dark maw, he sensed something was wrong. There was a distinct, coppery smell wafting above, and last he knew and checked upon Simcoe and his men, they were healing from their injuries – this smell of blood was too fresh. Fearing the worse, for he did not want a repeat of what had happened the last time he and Caleb had taken Simcoe prisoner, he quickly dashed down the steps.

It was too late, and as he swept the torch this way and that, horror and despair filled him; Simcoe and the eight men with him were all dead. Elegant and swift, whomever had killed the bound prisoners who had been sitting against the support poles had merely slit the throats of all nine of them from ear to ear. He immediately turned back, shouting to Arnold, “Keep her away, sir!”

Wisely, Arnold pushed his sister back up before stopping half-way down the stairs and looked around, whispering, “What... in God's name...”

“Corporal!” Ben called towards the surface, “When was the last time these men down here were checked upon?”

“One hour ago, sir,” the man answered, and like Arnold, had also stopped halfway down the stairs, eyes in pure disbelief at the carnage that laid in the cellar. “Sir...” the young man nervously began, “I swear on my mother's soul, God bless her, that they were alive--”

“Is that...?” Arnold began, taking the rest of the steps down and approaching the body of Simcoe as Ben continued to survey the cellar, still quite shocked at what had happened.

“No!” Miss Arnold's cry of denial pieced the fog of disbelief as she raced down the steps and managed to evade both the corporal and Arnold's attempts to stop her. “Shaun! Shaun!” She stopped short of throwing herself on Simcoe's body as she threw up her hands to her mouth and sank to the ground, weeping.

“That's... that's Simcoe,” Arnold said after a moment, still quite stunned. “That can't be... that can't be Shaun Graves--”

“That's my husband, Benedict!” Miss Arnold sobbed. Ben made no attempt to move from where he was, holding the torch above the dead body of Simcoe. A small part of him was also surprised that Arnold had not even moved to comfort his own sister. “He's dead... how... how?!”

“Tallmadge,” Arnold said finally looking up from staring at the dead man, all traces of his anger, rage, and hostile intent disappearing from the tone of his voice, “what in God's name have you done?”

The momentary bristle of cold anger briefly filled him, but rather than give into it, he said as calmly as he could, “Sir, if you allow me to explain what I know, I may be able to help you.”

~~~

His family, along with Anna and the others were in good hands – at least Abe knew that Caleb and Caleb's descendant, Carrie Brewster, were going to make sure that the rest of the Ring members were going to get out of New Haven by nightfall. He still had to gather the necessary documents ready for Ben to sign, as promised, but after he finished that duty, he would make himself scarce. He hoped that before they left, he would be able to talk to Ben, but even he was not counting on that.

Closing the door to one of the rooms on the second floor of the building, he hugged the books and a couple of rolled up sheafs to his chest as he carefully descended the stairs. However, the slam of the front door opening startled not only him but the other clerks that were walking about, tending to their duties for the day. Even Magistrate Clayton had squeaked in fright again as the thunderous hobble-stomp of General Arnold shook the floorboards enough that Abe could feel it on the stairs.

“Magistrate Clayton!” Arnold's voice boomed as the general strode in, looking quite irate and angry. Moments later, Abe saw Ben also enter, but there was a grim, set, and irritated look about him as he stopped at the foot of the stairs, watching Arnold continue down the hall towards where Clayton was.

“Y-yes?” the judge said as curiosity propelled Abe to come down from where he had paused, allowing him to peer down the hall to see that the Magistrate was pulling at his clothes and trying to look not as intimidated as he must have felt with Arnold towering over him.

“I am in need of your counsel...”

“What's going on Ben?” Abe whispered to his friend, as he half-listened to Arnold's words, hoping that his question was not going to provoke him. He had never seen such a flinty look upon his friend's face before, even in battle, and it was sending chills down his back.

“Simcoe is dead,” was all that Ben said before Arnold's rather brusque summon pulled him away.

Abe managed to keep his mouth from hanging upon in utter shock as he stood at the base of the stairs, barely paying attention to what Arnold was saying and barely aware that Arnold was publicly dismissing Ben from his duties in New Haven. All he could think of was the fact that somehow, Simcoe had died. How and why, he didn't know, and almost didn't care, but the man who had been the bane of his and his family and friends' existence was dead. That was all that mattered.

* * *

_New York City_

 

“Looking for something?” Robert dryly asked as he paused in his scratching of the quill with invisible ink as the sounds of Samantha Tallmadge continuing to rummaging through a small trunk within the damp and cold cellar, increased.

“Yes, Captain Obvious,” she answered in a short tone as he glanced over to see her throwing a few pieces of clothing this way and that. A moment later, she finally paused and glanced back towards him. “Have you seen my Continental army outfit? Blue jacket with white trimmings and gold buttons?”

“Wouldn't that be a dangerous item to even keep here, much less smuggle through the lines?” he asked, frowning.

“Yes, but the risks were worth it,” she answered, sitting back into a crouch. “Damn, I don't remember if I brought it with me, or if I left it back with Ben last year. I thought I had it?”

“Can you go without?” he asked.

“Yeah, but I was hoping that after dropping off the reports at the dead drop, I might go and help Creighton and Rogers with their Simcoe runaround. I was hoping to dress up as a member of the 2nd Continental Light Dragoons, since Simcoe has a very apparent hatred for Ben and his unit.” She fell silent for a moment before jumping up and dusting her hands. Stuffing the clothing that she had thrown to the side in her mad search, she then said, “Ah, no matter. Harassing Simcoe doesn't require much to accomplish.”

Wisely, he remained silent to that particular comment and returned to completing his report on the current numbers for the defense of New York. His was the only one left that Samantha was waiting upon to bring to the dead drop, for she had collected a report from Austin Roe about the defenses on eastern Long Island over the beginning of the new year. Just recently, one of the Hattersfield twins had snuck back down and into the city to deliver a report on the British garrisons along the lower Hudson river up until Westpoint.

Come spring, he knew that Washington was going to have a lot targets to give to the Continental Army, but Robert suspected that perhaps the most opportune of the targets was to be Westpoint. Once they controlled that garrison, they would control the northern half of the Hudson and force the British troops southwards. And after that, he hoped that their next target would be New York, for he wanted to see his father finally freed from prison.

As he made his final tally on the numbers, he placed the quill down and blew on the paper. It was the front page of one of the blandest books that he had ever come across, but what it lacked in attention made up for its disguise. Gently ripping the page out as soon as the invisible ink had completely dried, he folded it and held it up, saying, “It's done.”

“Great!” she chirped, taking the paper from his hands as he couldn't help but smile slightly in response to her positivity. Unexpectedly though, as he was corking the small bottle that contained the invisible ink, he suddenly felt her press her lips to his cheek for one brief moment before she quickly pulled away and cheerfully said, “Wish me luck!”

His utter surprise at her action was momentary as he looked up to see her making her way up the rickety stairs before carefully opening the cellar door and leaving. “Good luck,” he managed to say after she had closed the cellar door, leaving him completely alone in the chilly place. Glancing back down and at the candle, he couldn't help but mutter to himself, “Well, Townsend, _that_ happened.”

* * *

_New Haven_

 

Though Ben could not feel his fingers as he tied the rein of his horse to the post and draped the thick blanket over to keep her warm for a little while, he ignored the cold. He knew that he could not leave New Haven without letting his agents know of what was going on. Having been unceremoniously kicked out of his office earlier in the day, he also needed a place to finish composing his letter and send that on its way before he made his way up to Springfield. He hoped that Anna and Selah would allow him in, even though he knew that it was at least a half-hour past the usual closing time.

Crossing the snow-covered ground, he saw that there were a couple of candles still burning in the tavern, but the general mood and lighting of the place told him that Anna and Selah were in the midst of tidying up. Knocking on the door, he didn't have to wait long before hearing the lock on the door unlatch and moments later, it cracked open, spilling some warmth and light into the cold.

“I apologize, sir, but we—Ben?” Anna said, peering out.

“May I come in?” he asked, giving her a smile that he most definitely did not feel.

“Ben, you're always welcomed,” she answered, opening the door further, gesturing for him to enter.

Removing his helmet, he dusted the thin layer of snow from it and his cloak before entering. Wrapped in the warmth of the tavern, he saw that it had been quite a day for the Strongs and their business – there were several plates, bowls, mugs, pints, and cups that were still standing on the bar, not washed yet, and both Andrew and Selah were behind the bar, scrubbing a batch. Culper 355, Abigail, had emerged from the back of the tavern, carrying a basket of sorts.

“Major Tallmadge,” she warmly greeted.

“Hey, look at the Tall-boy,” Caleb called out at almost the same time, as Anna gestured for him to take a seat at the only table in the corner that had been fully cleaned and cleared.

Ben could not help but smile slightly as he saw Caleb in the midst of engaging in a rather heated draughts match with Brewster. Young Cicero had briefly stopped helping with the cleaning of the tavern, as did Abe, and both had been watching the match with interest. That is, until Caleb and Abigail's greeting to him had drawn their attention away.

“Ben,” Abe began, stepping away from the match and headed towards him as he sat and placed his helmet down on the table before drawing his cloak away and draping it to the side.

“Oh, let him be, Abraham. Give him some peace and let him warm up before you start pestering him with questions,” Anna admonished, taking a few steps away and stopped Abe from approaching. Ben continued to shed his weaponry and placed it on the seat nearest to him, starting with his sabre and ending with the three pistols he carried, his boot knife, and the small, sheathed dagger he had strapped to the underside of his left wrist under the layers of his clothes. The Walther PPK and the mechanism that the future-Townsend had given to him remained inside his vest pockets.

“Thank you, Anna,” he gratefully said, before reaching into the inner pocket of his uniform jacket and pulled out a folded letter, which had had the wax seal already broken. To Abe, he said, “At least let me answer this letter before I answer your questions, yeah?”

There was a reluctant look in Abe's eyes before he saw him nod, saying, “Sure, sure.”

As his friend wandered away to do whatever he was doing before being drawn away to watch the draughts match, Ben looked up at Anna, asking, “Might I bother you for a quill, ink, and parchment?”

“It's never a bother, Ben,” she said, giving him a warm smile before walking away to fetch the items. In between her leaving and returning with the items, Selah had silently thunked down a mug of ale.

As soon as he was left alone for the moment, he unfolded the letter and smoothed it out on the table. This particular letter, delivered by a courier in the midst of his packing of his office today, had been the only thing keeping him from drowning in frustration, despair, and resentment. Unfortunately, because of the demands that Arnold had imposed upon him, he had not had time to properly read and answer it until now. While the letter was completely written in code, it was the length of it that had greatly surprised him when he had taken a quick glance at it earlier.

Natalie had survived and though she was still slowly recovering from her wound, by the time he had received the letter, he knew that she was no longer in Boston. She most likely already had made the trip across Massachusetts to wherever Washington was wintering. This letter, written by her, was the first time he had ever received something directly from her and had not been wedged in between any of Sackett's missives. This was also the first and he hoped that it would not be the last, that he received from her that was more than just one simple statement of delicate and tender affection. Those delicate lines were interspersed within the lines was information about what had happened in Boston during his absence, but his initial thoughts had not been on that. Instead, he had been immensely grateful that God had thought to spare her life and not take her from the world... from him.

Taking the quill, he dipped it into the ink, set the letter to the side and spread out a sheet of parchment. He began to write, and though he knew that he needed to tell her about what had happened in New Haven, he wanted to at least write a few personal, intimate thoughts to her before focusing on his duties. He had had the time here in the port-city to collect his thoughts, and he realized that even if they were far apart in eras, he could not bear the thought of losing her – to the war or to time.

“You know, you could have just told me the truth, Ben. That you just wanted some peace and quiet to write to a lady-friend,” Abe's voice startled him out of his writing as he looked up to see Abe standing near him, peering over at the unfolded letter. “I haven't seen this elegant of a handwriting in a letter since... well, since I don't remember when. Hmph, it's in code as well. Can't even read it. Looks as complex as that codebook.”

He wanted to smirk at the fact that it was encrypted in a way that only he and Natalie could decipher it, but he refrained himself from doing so. Instead, he gave Abe a mild look, but it was a little late for him to reproach his friend, for Anna, ever curious even all grown up, had hurried over. “Ben has a woman?” she asked, looking quite happy and a little more ecstatic than he liked.

The guffaw of laughter from the Brewsters-two made Ben briefly frown as he glanced over to see Caleb with the cheekiest of grins on his face. Returning his attention to Anna and Abe, he firmly stated, “An assassin attempted to kill Washington shortly after we drove the British back from Boston. This is a letter from the agent who took a bullet for him, informing me of her recovery and of what has been happening in that city in my absence.”

Immediately, the laughter, smiles, and general good mood died in the tavern. Though Ben felt a slight amount of guilt for killing such a jovial mood, he pushed it to the side – he knew that Abe and the others knew just how dangerous their work was. Yet they still did their duties, and he tried to do everything he could to keep them safe – he only had words to thank them with, and to him, they felt incredibly hollow. He asked a lot of them, and they gave him their all, but he could do so little for them in return, and with all things considering, he knew that he was going to have to ask more of them in the coming weeks and months – especially Abe.

“Sorry,” Abe said after a moment, reaching out and squeezing his shoulder before pulling back. “Sorry, I shouldn't have...” His friend sighed. “I... I'm glad your agent in Boston is doing better, Ben.”

Anna said nothing except to pat his arm as Abe walked away. She followed him moments later but turned to head towards the rear of the tavern. Just before Ben resumed writing, he caught a glimpse of Brewster placing her cupped hands on top of each other before wiggling her thumbs in a circling motion. He thought he saw her mouth, 'awkward turtle'. Mentally shrugging, for he didn't know what exactly the lady lieutenant was implying, he resumed writing.

It after he had folded and sealed the letter, four pages in length, that he was again, startled from his reverie and concentration. It was not Abe who disturbed him this time, but rather the sound of a small glass of claret being placed in the middle of the table. He looked up to see that of all the people, young Cicero had placed the red-wine filled glass on the table. “I haven't heard a lot of it being said to you or the other soldiers in these past few weeks. So I wanted to say it myself. Thank you, Major, for protecting us.”

Touched by the heartfelt words, he placed the quill down. Before he could reach over and pick up the claret though, another one was placed next to it. “He's right,” Abe said, lifting his hand up from the stem of the glass and taking a step back. “While it was almost like Setauket all over again, what you've done for us in particular deserve more than thanks. You held us together and got us to safety, even though we're all apparently stubborn arseholes.”

“Language, Abraham,” Anna admonished as she placed another glass down before saying, “And without you, Ben, and your other agents, we'd all still be stuck in New York or worse, dead.”

“Me and Carrie, we're just going to place two more down for you, Benny-boy,” Caleb said, sauntering up with two glasses in hand and thumped them down on the table. “Because you're a fun drunk, and with this many clarets... well, its definitely going to be one excellent night.”

Ben could not help but smile at that statement, but it seemed that the procession was not done yet as Abigail approached and warmly stated her thanks while Selah silently placed a glass down, opting to merely give him a nod. However, there was one more person who placed her glass down on the table, and much to his and others' surprise, Mary Woodhull, holding Thomas in one arm, was the final one to place a glass.

“Though we may never see eye-to-eye, Major Tallmadge,” the woman stated, “rest assured that I will never betray my husband to anyone. His secrets are my secrets.”

He stood up, taking the original glass left by Cicero and nodded towards her, saying, “I appreciate the candor of your words, Mrs. Woodhull.”

She accepted his words and stepped back. Ben looked down at the many glasses left on the table and could not help but smile at the absurdity. Sighing, he said mostly to Caleb, but generally towards the others, “Thank you for the generous and kind words, but you do know that I can't drink all of this. I need to be at Springfield by week's end.”

“Don't drink and derive... or wait, drive,” he heard Andrew mutter. “No... that would be don't drink and ride. Looks like you're going to have to crash here for tonight, sir. You can have my room.”

“Um--”

“Wow, you're a bunch of hard people to find, even in such a small town as this,” an unfamiliar accent, yet so familiar in pitch and quality.

They all turned towards the hall that led to the back of the tavern, seeing a young woman, dressed in a mismatch of colonial-era clothing that made her look like a skinner or cowboy walk forward. There were two flintlock pistols in her hands, aimed in their general direction, but she was most definitely quite armed. There were at least four other pistols hanging off of belts that were tied around her waist, and at least two visible long hunting knives, covered in blood, that were strapped to either side of her boots. A floppy hat was hanging down her back, held around her neck by a string, but it was her hair and her face that startled all of them. She wore her hair incredibly short, but the color was exactly the same as the woman she resembled – in fact, if Ben didn't know any better, he would have thought that the woman pointing pistols at them was the identical twin sister of Mary Woodhull, except more bold and aggressive.

“Mari?!” Andrew was the first to break the surprised silence.

“Kudos to all of you for hiding like a needle in a haystack,” the woman answered, ignoring Andrew's exclamation, as Ben saw Abe immediately step out in front of his shocked and horrified wife, pushing her and their son back. Selah had done the same to Anna, but both Brewster and Caleb looked like they were going to dive for their weapons, which were still at the table they had been sitting at earlier in the night. Abigail and Cicero had also taken steps back.

“Didn't expect to find any of you all the way out here, especially you, Major Tallmadge ... is it Major?” the woman asked, looking directly at him but keeping a steady aim on the others.

He placed the claret down and took a step away from the table. Just as he was about to answer the woman, Andrew beat him to the punch, asking, “Who the hell are you?!”

“What.... you don't think I'm Mari?” the woman stated in a mildly offended tone. “Geez, Strong... didn't think you'd actually be that forgetful. I know you hate me and all, but seriously, even after you swept my sister off of her feet and decided to fuck her six-ways till Sunday, you have got to have known that she still talks to me.”

“Last I heard, you should be in some podunk town in Manitoba, studying archaeology, Woodhull,” the agent ground out.

“Oh yeah, I definitely was. Then I found myself in the northern wilderness of fucking Quebec,” the woman spat out.

“Put the pistols down, Miss,” Ben interrupted, bringing up the Walther PPK to bear as he stepped out in front of his friends, flicking the safety mechanism on the side off. “While those flintlocks you hold may hit someone, I can assure you that this gun that I hold will be more accurate and precise in finding its target.”

“Ah shit, that's a Walther...” the woman said, before pushing the hammers on her pistols back to half-cock and holding them up.

However, even in a passive state, Ben did not drop his guard and continued to train his pistol on her. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Mari Woodhull,” the woman stated. “My twin sister is Abigail, by the way. We're fraternal twins...but looking behind you, I think I know who's standing there... the Woodhull family's ancestors, Abraham and Mary Woodhull. Never thought I'd look like great-times whatever grandma Mary here--”

“Who sent you?” he interrupted, hearing the footsteps of Caleb and Caleb's counterpart hurry over to retrieve their weapons.

“Uh... no one?” she answered, shrugging. “Look, I was in the middle of talking with someone overseas in France.... ah fuck it,” she began then seemingly gave up as the sounds of hammers being pulled back by the Brewsters-two made her glance over towards them for a moment. “Um, look, I have a really bad headache that I can't get rid of until the activation words are said to completion. I'm half-activated, okay, and I really, really need to find Command. When I was in Boston two weeks ago, I heard rumors that Command might be here in the United States... erm Thirteen Colonies, transported like I did. I followed those rumors to here.”

“You're a sleeper agent,” Andrew whispered in horror after a moment of silence. “I heard rumors that Director Andre was experimenting--”

“I'm not a fucking Britannian spy, Strong! I'm not what my sister became!” she shouted.

Ben fired off a warning shot past the woman's left ear, causing both Abigail and Mary to yell in fright, and Thomas to cry for a moment. It was necessary though, for even before the woman had stopped screaming in rage, the hammers of her pistols had been cocked back to full again, and his shot was only meant to prevent her from leveling her pistols at anyone. Fortunately, Caleb and his descendant did not fire their own weapons, but they did take a couple of steps closer.

Startled by the shot, the woman's pistols returned to half-cock as she glanced over at him. He lowered his own pistol, hoping that he was doing the right thing by not trying to antagonize her, as he realized that there were some very odd peculiarities in her story that would not be said unless she was telling the truth. “She's not a Britannian spy, Agent Strong,” he said, breaking the silence, and glancing over towards the man. “She's a Russian agent. Specifically, Third Section. They were in France carrying out an operation when they were transported.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Third Section?!” Andrew whispered. “They're fucking here?!” Ben remained silent. “Spirits on Earth, what is a Russian black-on-black ops unit doing here?!”

“Protecting members of Congress and important persons to the history that will be written,” he answered, watching the woman warily holster her pistols. “They were called in to Boston to hunt the three assassins in your sketches, Strong. When they failed to successfully capture two of them, that task fell to me and the net that was strung out along the Naugatuck River with the 2nd Light-Legions.”

“So I was right. Simcoe was not your only target here, Tallmadge,” the agent stated.

“Yes,” Ben said, then gestured towards the knives upon the woman, saying, “but not only have I and members of my unit failed to locate and capture the other two assassins, you managed to slip past my men guarding Simcoe. You killed him and the other eight with him, didn't you, Miss Woodhull?”

“I did,” the woman simply answered without fanfare or any boastful tone in her voice. “He turned my sister into a Britannian agent. He deserved to die.”

“Wait a minute,” Abe spoke up, taking a step forward, but still remaining slightly behind Ben, “are you saying that the Simcoe who died today, Ben, is _not_ Captain John Graves Simcoe?”

“He had nothing on him that would suggest that he wasn't Captain Simcoe, Abe,” he answered, carefully looking at Mari Woodhull.

“Yeah, because I took his dogtags, single point radio, and gun. The fucker didn't need them, though the gun is pretty much useless, since I can't even get it to work.”

“Radio?” Andrew spoke up. “Simcoe had a single point radio on him?”

“Yes--”

“You killed the wrong man!” Abe interrupted, throwing his hands up as Ben saw him step to the side and approach her. “You killed Deputy Director Jonathan Simcoe. You killed Simcoe's descendant. Not Simcoe himself!”

“Well excuse me, Gramps, but I'm not going to go around killing ancestors and the like. I'm not messing up history myself, and besides, I like celebrating Simcoe Day.”

“Simcoe Day?” Caleb spoke up. “What in sweet hell is that?”

“Canadian holiday,” the woman answered. “To us Canadians, or excuse me, _Britannians_ , he's pretty popular--”

“Abe!” Ben said, managing to grab his friend before he could punch her. “Calm down!”

“Okay,” Woodhull said, taking a step back, holding her hands up in surrender. “Guess this Captain Simcoe to you guys is an asshole. Note to self, historians lie a lot.”

“What is a single point radio?” Ben asked, after a few minutes of holding onto Abe before letting him go, sensing that his friend was not going to throw a fit towards the woman. He saw Abe straighten out his clothes but remained glaring at the woman.

“Something that will give us an advantage into listening to what Director Andre has planned, and perhaps, also capture the rest of his agents. Its only a listening device, not a speaking one, and it seems that Simcoe here was either listening for orders or was truly trying to circumvent Britannian plans,” Andrew said before glancing over at Woodhull. “If the radio truly does exist.”

“I'm just going to reach into my pockets and pull the stuff out, okay?” the woman said, eyeing mostly Brewster and Caleb. She slowly reached into her inner vest pocket and moments later, pulled out what looked to be a slim-looking gun, along with the identification tags that jangled, and a small, tiny rectangular object.

Andrew roughly snatched the items from her and just as he placed his hands around the gun, it lit up in an eerily bright green color. “Hey,” Abe began, frowning, “that looks exactly like the color of the gun that Simcoe used to shoot Andre's men in New York who were about to ambush me.” He looked over at the woman, “I thought you said the gun was useless?”

“Yeah. It is. How the hell did you get it working, Strong?” she answered.

“Magic,” the agent answered in a very dry tone before placing the gun down on a table and examined the identification tags and the small object. Ben watched the agent fiddle with it for a moment before something briefly hummed and crackled in the silence and was quickly gone as fast as it had come. “It works, sir. She's not lying. It's definitely a single point radio.”

Ben frowned. While as glad as he was with the news that they now had a way in to listen to Britannian orders, there was something that bothered him about it. “How...” he began then paused to collect his thoughts as he flicked the safety mechanism back on and holstered his pistol. “How did you know that Simcoe turned your sister into a Britannian agent?”

“I took shelter with the Iroquois Confederacy as I made my way down from the wildnerness and into New York, following the Hudson,” the woman answered. “Don't know if you knew, but Abby and I, our mother was a member of the First Nations, so we learned a few of the native tongues while growing up. Was really helpful in my archaeology work, but I digress. Some of the Confederacy sided with the British, some with the Continentals, others remained neutral. I heard a few people talking about what was happening down south, so I decided to go see what was going on, hoping to hear some information about Command or any other displaced peoples from time. By the way, did you know that you have Sheridan's Rangers here in this era?”

“Yes,” Ben curtly answered. “Go on.”

“I get near Poughkeepsie, sorry, that's near Westpoint, and I finally see some actual Brits. Snuck around and while I'm floating down the river, minding my own business, I happen to overhear some officer talking to another person about Simcoe and my sister. That's how I found out the fucker turned my sister into a Britannian agent.”

“The officer you overheard and his companion. Describe them,” he said.

“Uh, I didn't get a good look at them,” she answered. “But I do remember one of them having dark hair and this weird-as-shit thin blond braid.”

“Major Andre,” Abigail spoke up.

“And most likely he was talking with Director Andre,” Ben said, nodding. “Miss Woodhull, did you get a good look at British fortifications along the Hudson?”

“Some, not all,” she said. “Wasn't my priority.”

“Well, it now is,” he said, glancing over towards Caleb. “Caleb, have one of the men relay a message to Washington to send Command to Springfield. Take this--” he went back to the table and took the sealed letter “--and have it delivered to his camp as well. Miss Woodhull and I will be waiting at Springfield.”

“Will do, Benny-boy,” Caleb answered, taking the letter before holstering his blunderbuss and collected the rest of his items before leaving though the rear of the tavern.

He shifted his eyes over to Caleb's descendant, saying, “Brewster, stay here and guard our agents. Captain Simcoe is still out there, and if our other two agents cannot keep his interest in southern Connecticut, get them to safety. The two assassins from Boston most likely have already slipped our net, but keep the 2nd Light-Legions deployed for now.”

“I'm coming with you, Tallmadge,” Andrew spoke up. “I don't trust her, Russian sleeper agent or not. And besides, I can be a good marker or indicator if anything goes wrong in New Haven.”

“Fine,” he answered after a moment. “Boots and saddles in twenty.”

“So we're on permanent holiday until Simcoe decides to sniff around here and find us?” Abe spoke up just as Andrew dashed off while Brewster prodded Woodhull to a corner and started to relieve her of most of her weapons.

“For now, Abe,” he said, turning slightly and giving his friend a grateful smile. Returning to the table, he picked up the claret that he had put own and raised it into the air. “You've all done enough for now,” he stated before taking the drink in one gulp and placing the glass down. “Thank you.”

There was so much he wanted to say to Abe, but he wanted to say it in private, for the particular thing he wanted to ask his friend to do in the next few months was going to take a lot of courage and fortification in the face of adversity to hopefully succeed. There was no other person in the Ring that he knew could do what Abe could do, and thus, he did not want to say it out loud.

As the rest of the Ring members drifted away, with Anna and Abigail going to the back of the tavern to lock the back door a little more tighter, for it need not be said that that was how Mari Woodhull had gotten in, Selah returned to the bar to resume cleaning and keeping an eye on their new guest. Cicero approached Brewster, looking at the weapons and curiously at Woodhull, while Mary Woodhull gave her descendant a very wide berth and decided that retiring up to where she was temporarily staying was the best of ideas.

“Ben,” Abe quietly spoke up from beside him, as he picked up the first of his pistols and gave it a quick cursory inspection before holstering it. “Don't make me stay here. You know what I can do. Let me go back to Setauket or New York, now that we know that Simcoe is in southern Connecticut and Director and Major Andre are up north--”

“I need you for another mission, Abe,” he stated in a quiet tone, quickly glancing up to see that no one was really paying attention to him or Abe at the moment, before returning his attention to the second pistol in his hand. “Even if another descendant of yours hadn't shown up, I still need you for this particular mission.”

“And what's that?” Abe asked.

“I need you to clear General Arnold's name. I need you to undo what Simcoe – I don't care which one did it, both of them are guilty of it – has done. We can't have the best field commander after Washington turning to the British side to pay false debts.”

“Is that what he did in 'history'?”

“According to our friends from the future, yes,” he answered, holstering the second pistol and the third after inspecting both. “He sold Westpoint for 20,000 pounds to pay his debts.”

“His debts are more than 20,000 at this moment, Ben,” Abe cautioned. “Like I said, those are legally binding documents--”

“And I need you to use that law schooling of yours to overturn it. Prove that they were false, or signed under duress, or something else. I tried to untangle it before he came, but I failed. I know I might sound like I'm asking the impossible, Abe, but you're the only one that I know who can make the impossible possible. Stick to him like a burr, gain his trust, and find out from Miss Arnold what exactly happened since Simcoe arrived in New Haven.”

“So not only do you want me to clear his name, you also want me to _spy_ on his family?”

“Yes,” he said, taking the boot knife and sheathing it in its proper place before picking up his sabre. “You want to do something? This is what I need you to do. This was a deliberate attack on Arnold, and I would bet that either or both Director and Major Andre had their hands in it. They mean to cripple the Continental Army by turning another of our generals, and we need to prevent that from happening again. We cannot have another General Lee in our ranks.”

“All right,” Abe said. “I'll do it.”

 

~*~*~*~

 


	29. Mission Impossible: Fort West Point (Pt. 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little more drama-llama filled than normal, but if you're into dark/black humor, there's that too...

**Chapter 29: Mission Impossible: Fort West Point (Pt. 1)**

 

“Do you know what this says, Major Tallmadge?”

“No sir, I do not,” Ben answered, glancing towards General Scott who was sitting behind his desk, still holding onto the letter that Arnold had had him carry with him to present to Scott. Even as rude and dismissive Arnold had been towards him in New Haven, Ben did not open the sealed correspondence from one general to the other. He still had enough self-respect to give Arnold the benefit of the doubt and knew that Scott could not reprimand him as harshly as he knew he deserved. But he was no fool to know that that would not stop his former commander from sending a missive to Washington or forwarding Arnold's letter to him.

“You still haven't learned anything about obeying the chain of command from that debacle three years ago, haven't you, Tallmadge?” Scott said, folding the letter back up and waving it slightly in between his knuckled grip on it. “And now, added to that is your blatant and insubordinate attempts to involve yourself in a general's _personal_ affairs?!” Scott shook his head. “You've gone too far this time, Major. Even a Head of Intelligence as yourself should have boundaries.”

“Sir,” he began, before pausing for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “Sir, I will accept any punishment that will be pronounced upon me, but I submit that my actions were only done because of the British agent that was captured and discovered to have attempted duplicity upon General Arnold. Aside from that, may I send a request to General Washington with regards to the two hunters that accompanied me? I believe that they may be able to open up dialogue for an alliance between the Army and elements of the Iroquois Confederacy.”

While riding up to Springfield, both he and Andrew had tried to come up with a plausible excuse to bring him and Mari Woodhull into the Continental garrison and camp that surrounded it. Reluctantly, they had accepted the quite plausible story spun by the woman about her and Andrew being a husband-and-wife team of fur traders and hunters who had had contact with members of the Iroquois Confederacy. Andrew had not been happy with the prospect of being the pretended husband of the woman, but he went along with it since neither he nor Ben could not come up with another solid idea. If questioned, Mari would do all the talking, since she knew some of the languages while Andrew would remain mute.

“After all that those Indians have done in harassing our people, our settlements – under the orders of the British no less – you of all people think that it is a good idea to open up dialogue?!” Scott exclaimed. “Write what you want, Tallmadge,” the man scoffed, “for I will be forwarding this letter from Arnold and adding one of my own. You sir, will remain in the camp and continue your duties as Head of Intelligence, however that may be long left. We shall see what Washington thinks of your absurd idea, and if he does not agree to it, your guests will be sent on their way. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” he answered, somehow managing to keep the anger he felt at such belittling by Scott from coloring his tone.

As soon as he left the tent, stiffly walking out no less, he made his way past many men who huddled by the fires, along with those who were drilling in rifling or marching just to keep warm. Horses and oxen that were either empty or carrying meagre supplies rolled through the camp, splashing mud wherever they hit a mud puddle, but it seemed that the men in camp could not even care about such details. While better provisioned than he had seen in Morristown and elsewhere before, he caught glimpses of hollow eyes and despairing countenances within a few of the soldiers' tents that he passed. Even with victories in hand, the war was still a long way from being won.

* * *

_New Haven_

 

“You look like you can use something stronger than an ale, Woody.”

Abe looked up from burying his head in his arms, with his forehead nearly hitting the table. All around them, patrons in the Bulldog's Tavern were merrily drinking or playing games, and someone was playing the fiddle, which sounded a bit grating to his ears. Sitting in front of him was Caleb, nursing a mug of ale as well, whereas Abe had taken two swigs of his and then buried his head down, not wanting to think too much since leaving work.

“What I could use is another attempt to punch Ben in the face,” he grumbled, reaching out and lazily grabbing his mug before tipping it slightly towards him. “Dear God, I never thought I'd regret agreeing to spy on Arnold for him. That man is a complete obstinate, childish fool with a temper that matches a colicky child!”

“What Ben?” Caleb asked, giving him a bewildered look.

“No,” he said, glaring at Caleb before taking a very lazy sip of the ale, dribbling some down his shirt and on the table. He didn't care though for he had never been this exhausted without ever having to do any farm work. “Arnold.”

“Hey, hey, just trying to make light of things, Abe,” Caleb said, hold his hands out slightly. “No seriously, you look like shite, mate. What happened? Thought all you had to worry about was either stabbing yourself with a quill or getting ink in your eyes while clerking.”

“I'd rather stab my eyes with quills if it will give me a day's peace without having to deal with him again,” he grumbled, taking another sip, this time properly. “He has Knobbs and I running around and the Magistrate breathing down our backs; all in an effort to find loop holes in the books of law to get him out of the contracts that Simcoe had forced Miss Arnold to sign in his name last year. Every single meeting I have had with him that included the Magistrate present always ends with him reiterating that we should be grateful that the Continental Army arrived when they did to save our skins. I have a half of a mind to go up and tell him that it was yours and Ben's forces, not his. Christ, how could someone be so arrogant?!”

“Well,” he heard Caleb say after a moment and saw him take a sip of his own ale before thunking it down on the table. “That sounds about right with Arnold and how he generally treats people. Ben though... dunno what he sees in him, but he respects the man, the 'great General who had his horse shot out from under him and continued to fight' person.”

Abe gaped at Caleb for a few long moments in disbelief. “Ben admires him?!”

“Well why do you think he's got it in his head to save him, besides the fact that Arnold is one of the better field commanders we have, _and_ we don't want him to turn to the British side.”

He didn't even deign to answer that and instead, sunk his head into his free hand, shaking his head slightly. “Well,” he said after a few moments, “I guess it still stands that we can't lose him.”

“If it helps, Woody, I heard rumors that his fiancee is coming down from Boston and they're going to get married soon. Maybe he'll not be a colicky child with a temper to match anymore, as you so aptly put it,” Caleb said, causing him to raise his head to see his friend grinning.

“I bloody hope so,” he muttered.

* * *

_A few weeks later..._

 

Washington's appearance at Springfield was very unexpected for those wintering there, for Ben had thought that he and his two companions would have been summoned to wherever the general had made his wintering camp, not the other way around. It was apparent from Scott's expression of surprise that he too had thought the same. But standing now in Scott's office that had been vacated by the general earlier in the day, Ben waited in silence and with as much patience as he could muster as Washington read through the reports that he had compiled during his stay thus far.

The most significant report had not come from what Mari Woodhull remembered from making her way down the Hudson as an actual hunter and fur trader to keep herself alive in this era, but from what Samantha had delivered to the New York dead drop. The Hattersfield twins had apparently been successful in infiltrating West Point, posing as 'help' that was desperately needed from the locals. From the numbers that Ben had last collected during their travels up from Philadelphia last spring to New London, the fort had bloomed nearly ten-fold in numbers, armaments, and size.

The numbers that the twins had provided had been verified with the numbers that were reported by Mari, and additional notes had been compiled by him from what Samantha had delivered. Now though, he could see a small, satisfied smile start to emerge on his commander's face, and moments later, Washington gave the report to Hamilton to peruse as well, giving the aide a slight nod of his head.

Ben saw him look up pride shining through his eyes saying, “Remarkable. Simply remarkable that two agents managed to infiltrate one of the most heavily guarded and patrolled places after New York, and bring this much information back. That and coupled with the report from that woman, our Mr. Culper's second descendant... simply remarkable. Your agents have done wonderfully, and we may yet finally have the advantage over this Director Andre and the British High Command.”

“Thank you sir, though I am afraid that most of the credit must go to Agents Tallmadge and Sackett for their excellent training of the Philadelphia and New York agents. Credit must also be given to the happenstance circumstances in which Miss Woodhull came to find us in New Haven.”

“And this is a woman whom both the US Army and Britannia thought to not even recruit?” Washington asked, slightly surprised.

“Apparently so, Your Excellency,” he answered. “According to Agent Strong, MI6 only targeted Abigail Woodhull for recruitment because of what she had done with her infiltration of their systems. He told me that the Woodhull family was aware that both women were checked for untoward affiliations, but Miss Woodhull's insistence in studying and working in the field of archaeology was absolutely no interest to MI6. Or to the US Army for the matter, even after Culpeper Agent 722 defected to their side during the beginning of the rebellion. Miss Woodhull's relative isolation and field of study was useless to both entities.”

“The most perfect agent for recruitment then, was it not for the Russian Secret Service?” his commander asked, eyes glancing towards the Russian secret police force commander, Alton-Tallmadge – or also known as Command.

The man shook his head slightly in the negative, causing not only Ben and Washington to frown, but also present, Hamilton, Billy Lee, and Sackett. Ben had not expected Sackett to be present or traveling with Washington, but it seemed that his interest was quite piqued with the mention of Mari's strange affliction and circumstances that caused her to appear in New Haven. “She was also initially useless to us,” Alton-Tallmadge stated, “until certain circumstances before the advent of war necessitated us recruiting her.”

“The recruitment of her sister into MI6, perhaps?” Hamilton guessed.

The man said nothing and gave no indication that he would answer the question and would gladly leave them guessing until their faces turned blue. While Ben found it extremely irritating that information about the mysterious Russian force was not forthcoming, during their ride up to Springfield, he had asked Andrew to clarify what was a 'black-on-black' ops unit. The agent-assassin had merely stated that it was a term that involved wetwork operations and the like that were kept so secret and off the table that no one outside of the actual author of the group and perhaps the leader of the country that the group came from, knew what they did. He had found that statement quite disconcerting and dangerous, even in such circumstances.

While he filed action reports for all operations that were carried out by the 2nd Light-Legions so that they had accountability and knowledge that would help in possible future assessments of where to move troops, coded Culper reports were regularly burned once translated and assessed to keep Abe and the others safe. They had decoded reports, receipts for goods and money spent to get those crucial reports; possible accountability (and security breach if they were ever stolen) – and from the description of the Third Section from Andrew, it sounded as if they didn't even file reports for their actions but whoever funded them knew about their activities.

“It is not a matter for concern at the moment,” Washington said after a moment. “William, please inform Miss Woodhull and Agent Strong that we are ready to receive them.”

“Yes, sir,” the young manservant answered, scuttling out of the room.

“Sir,” Hamilton spoke up after a moment, “might I suggest that you allow the Lifeguards and I to--”

“It is quite all right, Alexander,” Washington said, raising a hand. “There will not be a repeat of what happened at Monmouth today.” Ben saw him glance over again at Alton-Tallmadge before asking, “Am I correct, Mr. Alton-Tallmadge?”

“Correct, General,” the man answered. “However, I cannot speak for Agent Strong's capture and dubious release from Deputy Director Simcoe's laboratory in New York City.”

“Sir,” Ben immediately said in a protesting tone, though not because his commander doubted Strong's allegiance, but the fact that Washington dared play a dangerous gamble with his own life to test and see if another of the Culpeper agents who had been captured by the enemy had been turned. “I must protest this course of action--”

“As must I!” Hamilton chimed in.

“Do you doubt Agent Tallmadge's assessment of Agent Strong then, Major?” Washington challenged. “You yourself have said to depend on her judgment – are you not casting shadows and doubt to what she had stated?”

“N-no, sir,” he said after a moment, realizing just what his commander was implying.

Samantha had stated in her reports upon bringing Abe, Abe's family, along with 355 and Cicero across the Sound that Andrew didn't seem like a turned agent. Washington's actions at the moment had dug painfully deep into the seed of doubt he didn't even realize that he had about Samantha's assessment of Andrew. Now that it was fully in front of him, he realized that if he was doubting her words, then what she had sent him thus far about New York could not be trusted. His words weighed a lot in the eyes of his commander, and if he doubted Samantha, then _he_ would be burning yet another part of the Ring and they would have to start all over again in the infiltration of agents into New York City.

“I-I just have some lingering doubts about Miss Woodhull... and her extraordinary timing to show up in New Haven and kill Simcoe,” he admitted. “Her numbers for garrisons along the Hudson match, but...” He trailed off as he glanced over at Alton-Tallmadge who had given him the most inscrutable look ever.

However, before anyone else in the room could state their opinion on the matter, there was a knock on the door followed by Billy's muffled voice saying, “Sir, Miss Woodhull and Agent Strong to see you.”

“Let them in,” Washington stated.

The door opened and in walked the two agents before Billy followed them in and closed the door behind him. However, the manservant did not move from where he was and stayed by the door as the two agents looked a little bewilderingly around before settling their attention on those gathered. “Wow...” Andrew said, dragging out the word in awe. “Never thought I'd actually meet the real General George Washington. I wish I had a camera with me to take a picture of this moment...oh hey! Colonel Hamilton?”

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Agent Strong and Miss Woodhull,” Hamilton answered, nodding his head slightly, while Ben had noticed that Washington was carefully studying the two agents.

“Huh,” Mari spoke up, nodding at both Sackett and Alton-Tallmadge, “Don't know who the two of you are, but you're cool in my books--”

Ben only had a moment to raise his eyebrows in surprise stemming from the fact that the woman did not even recognize Command before Alton-Tallmadge suddenly spoke up, saying, “Mistress Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grown? With silver bells and cockle shells, and so my garden grows.”

By the time Alton-Tallmadge had finished speaking the rhyme, a very peculiar change had overtaken Mari. Though outwardly she remained the same, it was the fact that her eyes had widened just slightly in surprise or fear, Ben couldn't tell, and the fact that there was pure confusion upon her face that worried him. “W-where... where am I?” she said after a moment, staring at all of them. “W-who... what--”

“Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? With silver bells and cockle shells, and pretty maids all in a row,” Alton-Tallmadge stated again, though this time there was a difference in some of the words to the rhyme.

The transition between her apparent confusion as to where she was and to the next state that seemed so unnaturally still and blank happened faster than Ben could blink. She was staring straight ahead, eyes seemingly looking at nothing, and were it not for the slight up and down motion of her chest, he would have thought she had died standing up. Her jaw was set, as if she was not quite clenching her teeth but was on the verge to. But the most frightening thing that was her eerie visage came from the look in her eyes. He had seen such eyes before, and it had been within the beatific expression that Abigail Woodhull carried – an utterly devoid look that show no sign of life.

“I can't believe...” Andrew started, but instead of taking a step forward towards Mari, Ben saw him take a large step back. “Pre-programming... Manchurian candidate... history said that it was impossible for any second personality created through brainwashing to completely hide under the primary personality... How?”

Ben didn't know what a 'Manchurian candidate' was, but it was Washington who quietly spoke up in a cold tone after a moment, asking, “What in God's name did you do to her, Mr. Alton-Tallmadge?”

“You've interrogated both Peter Sackett and Robb Townsend yourself, General Washington,” Alton-Tallmadge stated, taking a few steps forward from where he had been standing in the room, gesturing to the still eerily still Mari Woodhull. “You know of the substances that were used to convert Culpeper Agent 722 and countless of others agents, soldiers, and civilians fighting against Britannia rule. I first came across such detailed and hidden brainwashing a few years before the outbreak of war and informed Tsarina Alexandra of it. Its architect and designer was none other than Commandant Sheridan of the Sheridan's Rangers, though we both know that Director Andre had modified the formula, using a combination of word theory and chemical manipulation. Considering the cause behind the compulsion that killed the man, she tasked me to focus the Third Section's resources and knowledge to find some way to break the hold, fearing that Russian agents deployed all over the world would one day be affected.

“Miss Woodhull happened to be one of those we tested word theory upon, since her isolation became the protection that was needed for us to carry out our Tsarina's orders. There are others, but she was never supposed to be activated. That changed when we started receiving reports that swaths of US Army personnel had gone missing – transported through time. Her activation was interrupted and it is my guess that it is because we were linked through wireless that caused the thirty of us Third Section and the _White Star_ to be transported as well. We were supposed to have deployed a chemical across France to counter whatever chemical agent Director Andre and his cohorts might have given to his hidden agents in that country.”

“What happened to that... chemical?” Washington asked, frowning slightly, though there was clear anger shining within his eyes.

“It's gone,” Alton-Tallmadge stated, opening his arms slightly, “left back in our era, most likely confiscated by Andre's agents in our era. It was supposed to be loaded into a warhead, an explosive, and shot from the _White Star_ to be distributed as a gaseous spray in the skies.”

“Is it possible for you or your people to recreate it using what we have here?” Washington asked, steepling his hands together for a moment.

“Not in this era,” the man immediately answered, clasping his hands behind him. “You are better off just killing any of the agents under Andre's command until we can be transported back to our era. We already included some training that is given to all agents in the Russian Secret Service, within the word theory that was embedded within Agent Woodhull. Might I suggest sending her to the last known location the two assassins who most likely have slipped the net of soldiers that were deployed, General? As a token of good faith?”

“Good faith?!” Hamilton exploded, standing up from where he had been sitting, surprising not only Ben but everyone else in the room except for Mari, who remained unmoved and unblinking. “What did you do to that poor woman, sir?! She's almost in a right state of living and death--”

“Colonel Hamilton!” Washington interrupted in a furious tone. “Silence your tongue.”

“Sir,” the aide stiffly answered, but did not seat himself again.

“I apologize for my aide's rude words, Mr. Alton-Tallmadge,” Washington said, returning his attention to the man, “but we shan't be needing to send Miss Woodhull into the wilderness since it is apparent that she was coerced and manipulated into this business without her full consent. Please return her to her natural state.”

“No. Sir.”

“No?” Ben heard his commander ask after a moment's pause of surprise. “You will not or you cannot, sir?”

“Both,” Alton-Tallmadge answered. “We've discovered that once fully activated, the embedded word theory destroys the original personality. The chemical manipulation that comes after that only strengthens the convictions of the new personality, ensuring that the agent, civilian, or soldier is absolutely loyal to the cause. Our research and implementation was specifically done to counter-kill turned agents in a more 'humane' fashion, thereby minimizing casualties. It is why I have always said to kill the two assassins and urged you to kill the assassin you captured. They cannot be turned back. Mari Woodhull here is an activated agent and can never recover her old life.”

“Had...” Andrew spoke up before pausing to collect his thoughts. “Had you known that her sister had been captured and turned the same way, been a sleeper agent... would there have been any hope to turn Abigail back, Mr. Alton-Tallmadge?”

It seemed that the man was in no mood to answer Andrew's question and ignored the agent-assassin outright by taking a step forward and addressing Washington, saying, “The location of the two remaining agents, General? I shall promise to take my people with me to assist in the elimination of the assassins. You shall also not hear of us anymore unless Agent Sackett or Agent Volkov once again requests our assistance.”

Ben saw his commander narrow his eyes slightly before saying, “And what of Agent Irina Sackett? She was stated in Abigail Woodhull's confession to be one of Director Andre's agents.”

“That is to be discussed between Lieutenant General Washington and I,” the man answered. “Our agreement, General, was to hunt down the three assassins.”

Ben frowned himself – the words that the man was saying was incredibly mercenary, callous, and to him, quite loathsome. He was appalled at just how amoral this man was, though he was not able to dwell on the words for long as he heard Washington ask, “Major Tallmadge?”

The 'if you would please' that he expected from his commander to tack on after never came as an awkward silence hung in the air. The last known location of the two assassins was stated in the reports he had handed to his commander upon entering the room for his perusal, but he realized that even after handing the report to Hamilton, the aide had not even deigned to decode it. The reports were still sitting on the desk next to Hamilton, out in the open, but still in code. Both Washington and Hamilton had read the report in code, and there had been some silent communication of sorts between the two to not immediately decode the report.

Washington knew where the two assassins were – and that location had not been reported from the 2nd Light-Legions deployed along the Naugatuck River. Robert Rogers had reported two suspicious-looking women crossing the Connecticut-New York border near Danbury, but had not pursued, due to Simcoe's presence. He slowly realized that his commander was giving him the option to give or deny Alton-Tallmadge the necessary information. If he gave the Third Section the intelligence, they would be able to get rid of the threat upon lives and possibly also close out their dealings. If he denied them the information, then lives were still greatly threatened, but they could utilize the Third Section for different operations and possibly counter the Sheridan's Rangers.

There was a very heady feeling that came with his realization and the consequences that stemmed from either direction. He dared not speculate as to why Washington was allowing him to make such a decision, but there were a few things that had been nagging at him since the beginning of this debacle, and he wanted the answer to it. Thus, he asked, “This word theory and chemical manipulation that you speak of... was the first time you encountered it in the aftermath of a certain tragedy that happened at Westpoint in the beginning of 2170?”

The silence that stretched was long enough that he almost decided to plow on with another question until the man answered with a curt, “Yes.”

“So this is personal, yeah?”

Alton-Tallmadge remained silent, but that silence was enough for Ben to know that he had assumed correctly. He remembered from Caleb's recounting of what was told to him by Carrie Brewster was that his counterpart, Major Benjamin S. Tallmadge's father had shot and killed himself, but was found to have been strangely compelled and controlled to do so. That meant that Alton-Tallmadge was indeed the blood-brother of Tallmadge's father, which meant that he wanted revenge against Tallmadge's mother, Commandant Sheridan. But to get that revenge, Ben felt that what Alton-Tallmadge did throughout the years was unconscionable – especially upon seeing the resultant within Mari Woodhull, an innocent caught up in a war she didn't want to even participate in.

He turned to his commander and said, “I apologize, General Washington, but I cannot, in good conscience, pass on that information to Mr. Alton-Tallmadge here. I would also like to submit my resignation here and now as your Head of Intelligence. Going forward, I cannot approve of any action taken against the enemy at this juncture that involves this man or any other intelligence that is gathered by him or the Third Section.”

Silence answered his declaration as he caught Washington's inscrutable glance over towards him before seeing him return his attention to the Third Section commander. As Ben clasped his hands behind him, he could not help but notice that of all people, Andrew was also shaking his head in agreement to his words. For a trained assassin whom Ben had seen calmly and coolly kill with no remorse or emotional inflection – sad or happy – during the battle for New Haven, Ben was surprised that Andrew was agreeing with him. The man was cordial enough, even when he was not getting along with Mari Woodhull, but Ben had noticed that Andrew kept his distance from everyone else except for Selah and Anna.

“Guards,” Washington said, raising his voice slightly. Immediately the door open with Billy stepping to the side as the two Lifeguards standing outside entered, rifles in hand. Ben closed his eyes for a moment before sighing, knowing that now that his commander had accepted his resignation, he had no right to remain-- “Arrest Mr. Alton-Tallmadge.”

He snapped open his eyes, staring in surprise at his commander before turning slightly to see that the guards had indeed grabbed Alton-Tallmadge by the arms. The man offered absolutely no resistance to the guards and merely gave a calculated look towards them, asking, “What are the charges against me, General Washington?”

“Unethical conduct, _sir_ ,” Washington said, taking a couple of steps forward, “against humanity. I may not know the full details of what gross misconducts you and your people, Russian or otherwise have taken to try to win your war, but this is _our_ war. I will not have the morals of Congress, nor the Continental Army and its officers who serve and fight for their freedom be further besmirched.” To the guards, Washington said, “Gag him and take him away. Lock him in the most isolated place you can find.”

“Yes, sir,” one of the guards stated.

“I wish to speak to Major Tallmadge alone,” Washington said after the guards had taken Alton-Tallmadge away.

Silently and with still some shock lingering in their expressions, the rest of those gathered in the room left. As soon as the last of them exited, with Sackett gently guiding Mari out, and closing the door behind him, Ben saw Washington return to the table, standing across where the reports were still laying. “I do not accept your resignation, Benjamin,” Washington began without preamble, picking up the reports and set it to the side.

“Sir--”

The angry look that his commander shot at him silenced whatever else he was about to say as Washington continued to speak. “The secrets, information, and even the operations of the agents that we keep from many in this Army and from Congress are too numerous at the point for me to even consider appointing another officer to the position. This spy business may be going through muddied waters at the moment, but now that we have seen the true face of what each side will do to win, we shall perhaps let the infighting and amoral actions of a few within Britannia tear their alliance apart with the British.”

Embarrassed at such praise and dependency that he did not realize that his commander had upon him, he felt himself flush slightly before Washington's words finally hit him. “Sir,” he said after a moment when it seemed that his commander was not going to cut him off again. “Pardon my question, but how are you sure that the British-Britannian alliance will fall apart? We've seen them go to extraordinary lengths to win.”

“Your reports, Major,” Washington said, tapping the small stack. “They helped confirm what Lieutenant General Washington and I suspected for a while, but could not confirm until we had the numbers for Fort West Point and other smaller forts along the Hudson. The Lieutenant General and her forces have been in near-constant engagement with Britannian forces since the victory at Monmouth. They may have brought in forces to attempt to trounce us at Monmouth, but the reports from our US Army allies before the attack on Boston happened, indicate that their numbers are not replenishing. What forces were transported via the three devices implanted into those assassins – it is complete. No further help is coming for either the US Army or Britannian armies.

“To counter this, Newport, Boston, New Haven, even Norwalk and Westport – attacks along our coastal towns and cities were designed to drain our resources, to send and scatter our forces to defend those areas. I had the Lieutenant General withdraw her forces in a temporary measure, allowing the mole within her ranks to carry word to Director Andre. I also had our forces consolidate in several areas to pretend that we were reacting to British threats. All the while, Britannia slowly consolidated their forces and resources at West Point.

“We now know that they have the numbers to even take New York City, where British High Command sits, and it seems that their commanders are becoming aware of it as well, hence the fortification and consolidation of numerous forces within the city while sending out small skirmishes to keep to the pretense of continuing their alliance. The fact that Miss Woodhull reported hearing both Director and Major Andre during her sojourn down the Hudson confirms our suspicions that Britannia may be poised to attack and take over command of this war on the British side. Infighting would benefit our cause, but I am afraid that we cannot allow Britannia to win. If they do so, we will all surely be hanging from the gallows within a year.”

“So we attack West Point before that can happen,” he suggested after a moment of silence to let the revelation sink in. “We take the fort and force the British to come to the negotiation table.”

“We take the fort, and we capture the two assassins, for there is a certainty that Director Andre will want to keep them close, now that we have two of his agents still alive and one who confessed all that he knows about the Director's operations,” Washington stated. “We then send every person from the future back to whence they came and then fight the rest of this war in our own ways and terms.”

“Peter Sackett confessed, sir?” he asked.

“No,” Washington answered, removing his hand from the reports and clasping his hands behind him for a moment. “We were not able to extract any information from him. However, Robb Townsend was very forthcoming with and without the truth serum.”

“Then you must know of what happened to me during the Rhode Island battles, sir,” he said, hanging his head in shame. “I humbly apologize, sir, for not letting you know that I had been captured by the three assassins during one of the battles. I had not known what they tried to do to me and had doubted Agent Townsend's words--”

“You feared yourself compromised,” Washington quietly finished for him.

“Yes, sir,” he truthfully answered, looking up. “After that assassination attempt, I had my doubts as to whether or not I had been compromised in the same way that Culpeper 722 had. I wanted to carry our your orders immediately to prove to myself that I was still myself and still had control over my own actions.” He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out the cylindrical device, setting it on the table. “This is the device that Agent Townsend gave to me when I encountered him in Boston. He said that he was supposed to have triggered whatever had been implanted within my stomach wound by the three assassins during my captivity. If it was not taken out, then it was supposed to have compelled me to carry out my orders, and I could only imagine that the culmination of those orders would have been to kill you, sir.”

“Townsend did say as much,” Washington murmured but did not pick up the device. “It was also why I was hoping that Mr. Alton-Tallmadge would have been amenable to creating a defense of sorts against such things, since he had told us that his previous trade before engaging in this business was apparently bio-medical research and development at Yale. He was not a part of the team that created Director Andre, per se, but he was aware of the research and experiments that were taking place... a rival of sorts, if you put it in that context.”

“Sir, if I may speak my mind?” Ben asked after a moment.

“Go on,” Washington said, nodding.

“Is it wise to let dangerous, amoral people such as Mr. Alton-Tallmadge or Director Andre to continue to live? While I do not heartily advocate for their immediate deaths without trial, provided that Director Andre survives any further battles, I feel that we at least owe it to send the descendants of the Culper Ring back to their era with these two men no longer among the living,” he stated. “Spy or no spy, we must make an example of both of them and others who seek to turn and control others through unnatural means.”

“I will take your opinion under consideration, Major,” Washington said after a moment.

“And if I may, sir, one last question?” he asked, sensing that their discussion was at an end. With a silent nod from Washington, he took a deep breath and asked, “How are you sure that I have not been compromised?”

His commander was silent for a few long moments before picking up the device and placed it on top of the reports. “You can thank Nathaniel for that, Benjamin,” Washington quietly said with a strange quaver in the tone of his voice.

Ben rocked back on his heels for a moment as he realized what had happened and glanced at all the mugs that were still sitting out on the tables. “The coffee... that Mr. Sackett brought around for all of us before...”

“There will not be any more truth serum for us to use on anyone else after this, Major Tallmadge,” Washington said. “What was left was mixed within your coffee, dosed just enough so that you would not compromise your own private secrets during this meeting, but just enough for us to know your condition, and to assess and reestablish our faith within you.”

“Sir... thank you.”

* * *

_New Haven_

 

He couldn't feel but a little bewildered as he stepped into the apothecary shop, having not stepped into one often. This was Abe's first time within the Arnold's apothecary shop. He found the rows upon rows of odds and ends, things in jars of clay while others were corked within empty rum bottles. There were three customers within the shop, and he saw two young boys along with Miss Arnold behind the till counter. The boys were measuring and pouring some herbs into different containers while Miss Arnold was talking to one of the customers.

Whether it was his dressage or the fact that he looked so confused, he saw Miss Arnold pause for a moment with her customer and politely ask, “May I help you, good sir?”

“Good day, madam,” he said, stepping up and extending a hand forward. As he shook her hand, he continued to say, “I'm Abraham Underhill. I had an appointment with General Arnold?”

“Ah yes, Mr. Underhill, please,” the woman said, gesturing for him to go up to the home that was on the second floor of the building. “Please, my brother has been expecting you.”

“Thank you,” he said, noticing that the smile that she wore was most definitely strained – much like those he used to wear while living in Setauket and New York, fearful of discovery of what he was doing. He couldn't help but sympathize with her plight, but at the same time, knew that there were far worse afflictions that were happening to other families elsewhere who had no celebrated General to turn to for help.

Climbing the stairs, he knocked on the door to the second floor. He heard someone shuffling behind the door and a moment later, it opened to reveal a beautiful woman dressed in the plainest, faded dress he had ever seen. Momentarily stunned by the dissonance that was before his eyes, he faltered for a moment before realizing that this woman was most likely none other than Mrs. Margaret Arnold, General Arnold's wife. “Um, good day, Mrs. Arnold,” he said after a moment, holding up the folio that he had tucked under his right arm. “My name is Abraham Underhill. Your husband is expecting me.”

“Yes,” she said, giving him a soft smile, “thank you, Mr. Underhill. Please do come in, and I apologize in advance for the state of things.”

Entering the modest-looking house, he noticed that there was a slight state of a mess and more than one saddle bag had been packed and was pushed against the wall nearest to the entrance. Was Arnold going somewhere? It was still winter, albeit late winter, but even he didn't think that the armies would be moving that soon – no sane commander would move troops across snow and ice.

“Underhill,” he heard Arnold say, snapping his gaze up from the bags to see the general emerge from a room and into the small foyer, still leaning slightly on his cane. The general was dressed in his full uniform, though that aide of his scuttled through, carrying his cloak and another saddle bag. Abe stepped to the side to allow the aide through and take the other bags with him. “Good, you're here,” Arnold continued to say. “Come, lets talk in the dining room.”

“As you wish,” he said, following him as Mrs. Arnold also followed the two of them.

Putting the folio down on the table, he expected Arnold to take a seat, but when the general did not, he managed to make his aborted attempt at sitting look like he was leaning slightly on the table. “I've been summoned to meet with other Continental Army commanders,” Arnold stated without preamble. “I don't know when I shall return, but my wife here, Peggy--” Arnold gestured to his wife, “--shall be in charge of my affairs. Please work with her and my sister as you have done thus far, and once you have cleared my name, I shall see you rewarded in the most handsome of manners, Mr. Underhill.”

“Sir,” he began, “you're going to still have to show up in court in two weeks.”

“Damn the courts--”

“Benedict,” Mrs. Arnold interrupted, placing her hands upon her husband's chest and gently pushing him back away from Abe, “Please. Mr. Underhill and I will go and convince the Magistrate to postpone the hearing.” Abe did not miss the pleading look that she threw towards him before turning a more pleasant expression back towards her husband, saying, “We'll get this all sorted out.”

Not wanting to face the wrath of the irascible general, nor put him in a fouler mood before his departure, Abe decided to play it safe and nod in agreement to Mrs. Arnold's words. “I can find a way to postpone it until you return, General,” he stated, half terrified as to how he was going to find the way to do so after several weeks of him already delaying the hearing as much as possible to give him and Knobbs time to find something – anything – that would create a chink in the legal monstrosity that Simcoe had roped the family into.

“You see, Benedict,” Mrs. Arnold said as Arnold himself seemed a bit more satisfied and took a step back, “everything will be all right.”

“Then I leave it to you, Mr. Underhill,” Arnold said after a moment.

With the brisk meeting over, he was shown out. Upon exiting the apothecary, he took a few steps into the street and paused, looking back at the store. He heard the clip-clop of horses and looked over to see Arnold's aide bringing the two saddled and ready horses to the front of the shop. Seeing that he had some time to kill before returning to his office to continue to sort out the legal mess, and the fact that he did not want to face yet another round of Knobb's complaints about researching through so many more books in the Magistrate's extensive library, he grabbed the aide's horse's rein and halter to make sure the horse did not try to go anywhere while the aide shot him a grateful look and prepared Arnold's footstool.

A few moments later, Arnold emerged from the shop and climbed onto his horse. Abe immediately let go of the aide's horse's rein and halter and backed away to give the riders some room. With barely an acknowledgment, both the general and his aide rode off. Abe stepped back into the street before the ringing of the shop's bell caused him to look over to see Mrs. Arnold emerge. Returning his gaze towards the dwindling form of Arnold and the aide, he heard the woman step out into the streets and stop next to him, also peering out to catch one last look of her husband.

“If you pardon my curiosity, Mr. Underhill,” Mrs. Arnold murmured, “I do wonder what excuse you will need to give this time to ensure that my husband cannot attend his court date in two weeks time.”

“Pardon?” he asked, glancing over at her in a mixture of surprise that was thankfully covered by his practiced ability to look puzzled.

“I may not have studied law, but I have talked to Mr. Knobbs whenever you were not present, sir,” she politely said. “He informed me that both he and you have tried to push the hearing as far as you could and that this date in the next two weeks can no longer be pushed.”

“Ah, yes,” he said, managing to recover and schooled his expression back to a pleasant one. “Mr. Knobbs may do well to remember that we do have statues in place for privileged and confidential client-lawyer discussions, even clerks such as ourselves, that can not be revealed to other parties, but I suppose that since you are now in charge of General Arnold's affairs, that information is yours to know.”

“So, are there anymore excuses you can use?” she asked after a moment. “And please, call me Peggy. We will be working together in the foreseeable future to clear my husband's name.”

Shaking his head he answered, “Sadly Mrs. Arnold... Peggy, both Knobbs and I have exhausted all avenues. It would have to take a print of the gazettes and the battles they report to convince the court to postpone the hearing indefinitely, and I for one do not wish that on Arnold, for if he dies, then the matter will be completely sealed and he will have lost his case. I do not wish that upon him or his family, Peggy. However, while matters of the law should not be delegated to the women of the house, there may be a way that we can circumvent his presence in the court – by recalling his eldest son from his schooling in Boston.”

“His eldest son is going to school in Boston?”

He glanced over to see a genuinely puzzled look upon her face and frowned. “I thought he or Miss Arnold would have told you that yes, his eldest son is in Boston attending a school with a small sum of the actual profit made last year – even with all of this debt that was accumulated. I was told my Miss Arnold that she had intended to send all three of his sons to Boston, to safer waters than here last year, but they only could spare enough to send the eldest for now.”

“That's... that's not possible, Mr. Underhill,” Peggy stated. “I... I was living in Boston since last January and in all of my then-fiance's letters to me, he didn't mention once that his son was in Boston – otherwise, I would have taken the boy in as my own.” She glanced towards the apothecary and took a step away, saying, “P-pardon me, Mr. Underhill, but I must make some inquiries to my friends in Boston. I shall come by later to the Magistrate's building to discuss my husband's business.”

Abe watched her walk away, the frown on his lips getting deeper. Though he did not have any contacts in Boston, something about Mrs. Margaret 'Peggy' Shippen Arnold's words and sudden strange behavior puzzled him to no end. Perhaps Selah had mercantile contacts in Boston, and if not, then Abe would send a message to Caleb. Of the two, he was sure that Caleb had a bunch of whaling contacts who could ferret out if Miss Arnold's story about the boy told to both him and General Arnold was true or not.

* * *

_Morristown_

 

In the weeks that had passed since Ben had met with Washington in Springfield before his commander had returned to Morristown, both Mari Woodhull and Andrew had left with him. The latter had sought the help of Natalie and of the resources she had to try to reverse Mari's condition, and Ben had heard that though it was not completely successful, they had managed to 'repair' the damage done – enough that under Natalie's explicit orders, the Third Section was to obey any order that Mari gave. Ben didn't know what went on behind the scenes for that to happen, but the Third Section and their new commander had been secretly sent to New Haven to protect the Culper Ring.

With a more robust protection in place, Ben had recalled both Brewster and Caleb, sending them to Morristown when he himself had received the summon as well. To his surprise, General Scott was also summoned, but with spring approaching, he supposed that it was more natural to have all regional commanders attend a planning meeting for their year's campaigns.

Now, as he stood in the tent, most of the regional commanders for northeastern forces were present: Lieutenant General Washington, Major Jefferson, Colonel Hamilton, Colonel Laurens, Marquis de Lafayette, Major General Arnold, Major General Scott, Major General Sullivan, and Lord Potemkin. It was quite an illustrious group of men that Ben had the privilege of standing with, though he was well aware that he was the most junior of the officers present.

Spread out on the table were several maps, one of which was the Hudson Valley region of New York. Two goblets held one end of the map while a spare compass and case that contained a spyglass held the other end. Several rectangular markers were clustered at New York City. There was another smaller cluster of three rectangles at White Plains, another at Stony Point, and a larger cluster on the east side of the Hudson directly across from West Point. Further up was Saratoga with cluster of blue, and to the east was Springfield with its cluster. Morristown had its own cluster, and somewhere in the northeastern borders between New York and Pennsylvania was a stretched cluster of blue.

“We will be attacking Fort West Point come spring,” Washington stated, breaking the silence. “Due to unusual circumstances that most of you have already experienced in these past year, we can expect a combined force of Britannia and British soldiers in this battle and all others in the foreseeable future. Because of this, I am opening this particular assault up to ideas that all of you may have. Please do not hesitate in presenting them to me. Every idea will be considered for maximum damage and minimum casualties.”

Silence greeted their commander's words, with only the hooting of a faint owl outside and the faint sounds of camp filling it. “S-sir,” Ben spoke up, as an idea rapidly formed in his thoughts, due to the many reports that he had read this past winter. “If I may?”

Washington nodded, though there was a mild look of surprise that Ben did not miss seeing on Arnold's and Sullivan's faces. Mentally squaring and bracing himself, he began. “With the snow melt, the river will be swollen and higher than it usually is, which would give us the advantage if we float barges that are tied with gunpowder cannons or even the Gauss cannons down the river. We could assault the northern portion of the fort easily,” Ben stated, pointing to the northern area of the hook point land.

“They have both sides of the Hudson at that point surrounded and occupied. Those barges will be destroyed before they even get close. If by some miracle that they do manage to approach the north side without being destroyed, they'll get caught in the chains,” Sullivan disagreed.

“Not if we attach certain mechanisms that propel the barges faster than men can row, to those barges. The outside of the fort is surrounded by Britannian soldiers, sirs – we cannot initially assault that position using flintlocks and gunpowder. We have to strike them fast and hard in order to open up a window of opportunity to use more conventional and practical means.”

Potemkin spoke up, asking a question in French, to which Lafayette dutifully translated, “General Potemkin is wondering what are the mechanisms you have describe that could enable a boat to travel faster than a man can row, and if they are the same as he has seen used by the whaleboats during the siege of Boston last year.”

“Yes, sir,” Ben answered, nodding at both Lafayette and Potemkin.

“You're going to need at least four robotic horses for each barge to convert into speedboat usage, Tallmadge,” Jefferson spoke up, rubbing his chin with his fingers for a moment. “Even then, using four at once may cause any boat in this day and age, big or small to splinter more easily, especially if it requires the barge to be very maneuverable. How many Gauss cannons did you plan to have on the barges?”

“Four for each barge, positioned with two on either side, and at least a squadron of four barges floating down river,” he answered, trying to keep the nervousness out of his voice, for he was incredibly surprised that there had been no major objections, other than Sullivan's statement about the chains and downriver, to his idea thus far. He would have thought that Scott, who had not been terribly accepting of the idea of their integrated forces, would have already tried to cut him off from presenting his idea in full.

“Go on,” Washington quietly said, the tone of his voice betraying nothing that he felt. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw both Hamilton and Laurens writing furiously upon parchment, taking notes from the idea he was presenting so that their commander could review it later before making a final decision.

Feeling somewhat bolstered by his commander's words, he positioned four small rectangles along the Hudson in front of the fort, saying, “While that is happening and drawing the shore attention, since it will be spring, the coniferous forests will be damp with the melting snow but the deciduous trees will not have yet opened. Since we know that those advance rifles have a habit of catching many thing on fire, even damp objects, we can have Springfield and part of the Saratoga forces assault the east bank of the Hudson. If the Britannian forces stationed there take the bait, they will light the forests on fire, thereby blinding the east side.”

He pointed to the east side of the Hudson before taking two red, rectangular pieces that had been inside of the fort and placed them on the east. “With their eastern eyes gone, they will most likely try to reinforce that position as those eastern forces temporarily pull back, hopefully making the Britannians move and leave some of their west flanks exposed.” Picking up the blue rectangles, he moved them towards the west side of the fort, saying, “Morristown and the rest of Saratoga can strike on the west and do the same. Flames on both sides will blind them. It will blind us as well, since we cannot use those binoculars, but we're not going to need them.”

Dragging the three of the four small rectangles up the river, he then took the blue rectangle and positioned it on the east side of the river, saying, “Assuming that our four barges escape before they can be sunk, we then send the large laser cannon down and fire specifically at the east side to completely destroy that garrison. That would allow the eastern forces to approach and cross the river and assault the fort from the eastern side. With their focus on the west, east, and north sides of the fort, the southern approach will be exposed. That's where the rest of the Gauss cannons come in.”

He pointed to Stony Point, saying, “This position needs to be taken in a quick manner but not fully garrisoned while the assault on the fort is ongoing. We know from reports that they only have manned this garrison with British soldiers, since Britannia knows that West Point is more crucial than Stony Point. The rest of Lieutenant General Washington's forces not participating in the northern barges assault will be taking this fort and the rest of the barges strung out at this point to create a barrier of sorts in case any British or Britannian reinforcements from New York City arrives before we can take the fort. The US Army will then go up the Hudson and assault the fort from the south.”

Finally falling silent, he looked up to see that all of the other commanders had pensive looks on their face, though he thought he saw a ghost of a smile appear on Jefferson's face. Taking a step back, he clasped his hands behind him and awaited their dissection on his idea, trying not to let his nervousness that filled his stomach show.

“How many men are we talking about here?” Arnold asked, taking a long look at the map before glancing up at Washington.

“Ten thousand British troops, three thousand Hessians, and three thousand Britannian troops, including all of the Sheridan's Rangers,” Washington began, though his statement of numbers seemed to elicit a more somber state. “That is in the fort alone. On the eastern banks, the numbers vary between three and four thousand Britannian soldiers. No British soldiers among the counted and scouted.”

“That's madness,” Scott softly exclaimed.

“That is what we can approximately expect for New York as well, gentlemen and lady,” Washington said after a moment of silence to allow the number of enemy troops they were going to face sink in. “They will keep building their forces the longer we wait to control the Hudson and oust them from New York. The attacks along our north eastern coasts were no fluke. They were designed to drain our resources, our men, and our resolve. We cannot continue to let them do this, because if we let this fort stand as is, they will take not only Boston again or Philadelphia, but also key ports and cities along our coast.”

“That is why I suggested setting the forests on fire, sir,” Ben said just as an uncomfortable silence fell across those gathered in the tent. “That part of the assault needs to be done at night for maximum effect. Because of the unnatural blue light that the advanced rifles give off before they fire, we can see where they're aiming. The flintlocks, or rather, anything shiny will be able to reflect the firelight and give us a small advantage to conceal our weapons until we can fire.”

“I sense an 'also' in that idea, Major,” Lieutenant General Washington finally spoke up in a quiet tone, drawing every person's attention towards her.

Ben could not hold his gaze to her unnaturally red eyes, but not wanting to completely disrespect her, he tried to settle his gaze just slightly above her eyebrows, saying, “Yes, ma'am. However, because I am not entirely familiar with how your robotic horses operate and work, I am not sure if this additional idea can be executed. Can the robotic horses be turned into an explosive of sorts?”

“Generals, if I may?” Jefferson interrupted, glancing at both Washington and Lady Washington. Both nodded at nearly the same time, and the black man said, “Yes they can, and yes it is sort of possible to put a countdown timer on it. But I gotta warn you, Tallmadge, I only experimented with it once while at school and nearly got expelled for it. Modifying robotic horses that way has caused many instabilities and timing when the explosive goes off is a wild goose chase. However, because of how they are built, you cannot just put one alone and hope it creates a big explosion akin to what twelve-pounder might create. You need to cluster them together, say about five or six of them each to achieve equivalence.”

He held back his look of surprise – trust that there was an equivalent to Bushnell's madness in the future. But there was hope, and however volatile it was, it was better than a complete negative. “Since there are Sheridan Rangers integrated within the defense of the fort, how many robotic horses do you think I need to take the watchtowers on the south and east sides down and plant inside of the fort to whittle down their numbers?”

“If--”

“You, Tallmadge?” Scott scoffed, interrupting Jefferson. “Racing after glory--”

“Respectfully sir, I do not think that there is another option for this particular course of infiltration and sabotage,” Lafayette spoke up, surprising everyone at the table, including Laurens who had paused from his note taking as soon as Jefferson had mentioned clustering the robotic horses into explosives. “The Major's descendant is now a part of that Ranger unit and if need be, he will be able to disguise himself and his men as either his descendant or British soldiers in the chaos during our east, west, and north assaults. Am I not correct, Major Tallmadge?”

“Uh,” Ben began, nearly speechless at the eloquent defense that the Frenchman had given him, “you are correct, sir.”

“So how many of these 'robotic' horses will be needed to destroy the powder reserves inside of the fort?” Arnold asked. “And be spared for usage against Britannian soldiers outside of the fort?”

“I would suggest gunpowder grenades would be best used outside of the fort, sir,” Jefferson answered in a respectful tone. “Owing strictly to the fact that this plan that Major Tallmadge has laid out relies on the US Army forces blitzing through Stony Point and up to the fort, we will need almost every robotic horse that we have. To cause as much casualty as possible in Britannian ranks and the Sheridan Rangers without completely destroying the fort, it would require at least 120 robotic horses for clusters of six each, granting us 20 horse grenades. That's not counting the ones we need to include to move the barges, which puts us near a total of 200 robotic horses since Little Hans is heavy.”

“Little Hans?” Potemkin asked as soon as Lafayette had finished translating Jefferson's words into French, even though all were aware that Potemkin did understand English – he just could not speak it. With Jefferson's rather intricate and detailed words that had no equivalence here in the 18th century, it was necessary for Lafayette to roughly translate anything that either Lieutenant General Washington or Jefferson spoke about.

“Our giant cannon, sir,” Jefferson answered, his grin matching that of Laurens and was widened with the exasperated look that Hamilton briefly showed. “I'll introduce you later to it.” The Russian general merely nodded to Lafayette's translation and decided to leave the matter alone for now.

“How many men do you expect to take with you to infiltrate the fort?” Lady Washington asked.

“That I am not sure yet ma'am,” he admitted. “I have not thought that far yet.”

He saw her thin her lips slightly before giving him a curt nod, though oddly enough, he couldn't help but feel as if he had disappointed her. She was not his commander and he barely knew anything about her other than what Brewster and the others had told him about her, but somehow, he felt that he should have set higher expectations for himself when in front of her. However, as he glanced over towards Washington, he could not decipher the strange look upon his commander's face before his commander looked back down at the map.

After a few moments, Washington looked back up and asked, “Are there any other ideas on how to take Fort West Point?”

“General,” Sullivan spoke up, “if I may?”

Ben saw Washington nod and gesture slightly for the general to put his idea forward...

* * *

_Early Spring, 1779_

 

_Where could he be? I know that this is an enormous camp and all, but it can't be impossible for such a handsome bloke such as Ben to actually not be seen by people_ , Caleb frustratingly thought as he poked his head into a few random soldiers' tents, trying to find his friend. However, all he saw were a few men sleeping, playing draughts, reading faded letters from loved ones, or just cleaning their weapons in the tents. Making a noise of frustration as he made his way towards the officers' houses in the camp, he spotted his descendant strolling through, carrying a couple of glass bottles full of a dark, sand-like substance that looked suspiciously like gunpowder.

“Hey, Carrie, have you seen Ben?” he asked, stopping her in her tracks.

“Nope,” she said, shaking her head. “Old Man Sackett has me running around like a chicken with my head cut off, preparing all sorts of sweet, or in Samantha's words, 'nifty' weapons for the upcoming campaign.”

“You want a break from all that and help me search for Tall-boy?” he asked, sensing that his descendant could use a minute of rest and something else to do other than run around gathering all sorts of strange things for Sackett and the mad creations he made.

“Sure,” she answered, grinning. “I got some time to spare, and I don't need Sackett's family pestering me with more questions about the future than I care to answer in a civil way. Fuck, just trying not to curse in front of prim and proper Lottie and little David can be _so_ annoying.”

“Ah, be careful. That boy, David, yeah... he's smarter than he looks,” he cautioned, though he could not help but chuckle over her predicament.

It had surprised him greatly that Sackett had moved his entire family from Boston and to the Morristown camp. While Boston was once again safe and free of British influence, Sackett had never explained to him why the family was moved. But the two children had been under the strict watch of both Sackett and the missus, and to Caleb, it seemed that both were teaching their children the trades that they had been engaged long ago. It certainly seemed that way as he had seen Natalie occasionally walk with Lottie through the camp while distributing letters from the couriers.

“Yeah, I know,” she grumbled. “Okay, so where have you checked?”

“Practically everywhere in the camp and the officers' houses. Can't seem to find him anywhere. Boy's practically a master at disappearing nowadays. First New Haven, now this. I really hope that old Georgie did not send him on yet another secret mission.”

“Well, if worse comes to worse, we could convert the entirety of the 2nd Light-Legions' robotic horses into sniffers...”

“I can imagine that going over well with the others here,” he said, sweeping his arm out towards the camp.

Carrie barked in laughter before saying, “Come on, lets check the houses again. Maybe he just got snatched into a long winded meeting with General Wadsworth of the commissary. You know, negotiating for supplies for us 2nd Light-Legions, since we haven't been in the main camp for a while.”

Together the two of them went back up towards the officers' houses, though Caleb was still quite amazed that where there had been one house for most of the high-ranking officers who camped at Morristown, there were now two, with the second one built and completed just before the heart of winter had fallen across the region. While it was not completely furnished with furniture or a functional kitchen and was quite smaller than the original one, it provided more room for the officers to stay in. Caleb knew that Ben also no longer compiled reports within his cramped tent in the camp, having been offered his old office back. Though more often than not, Caleb had also seen Ben asleep within the office, slumped over his desk after a long day, instead of getting a proper lie down in his tent within the camp.

As soon as the two of them entered, there was most definitely the usual sounds abuzz in the air of aides, couriers, junior officers, and the like running from room to room. The army was going to break camp soon and though rumors flew as to their destination, everyone was of the same mind and thought – they were going to attack. Both he and Carrie jumped out of the way of an courier that was rushing down the hall and out the door before making their way to Ben's office.

Opening the door slightly, both of them peeked into the office; it was still as empty and full of stacks of reports the last time Caleb had been in here. However, just as he and his descendant were about to close the door, the door to the second, tiny adjacent room that was next to Ben's office suddenly opened. “Hey, there you are!” he exclaimed as saw Ben step out of the room. “Where--”

As he was immediately shoved further into Ben's office by Carrie who hastily closed the door behind them, he saw Ben flush as red as a freshly forged blade from a blacksmith's oven. Just as the tiny adjacent office door where Ben had emerged from closed slightly, Caleb caught a glimpse of someone else, someone wearing a familiar-colored light blue cotton dress moving within the room. A fit of laughter over took him as he realized just what he and his descendant had stumbled upon, and try as he might to be embarrassed _about_ catching Ben and Natalie in the aftermath of their private moment together, he could not.

“Caleb--” Ben began, spluttering and protesting.

“Sorry...” he said, but could not stop laughing over his friend's apparent embarrassment, with Carrie's guffaws and snorted laughter contributing to his continued laughter. “Sorry... its just I never thought you'd do something like that--”

“Honestly, you two, did neither of you grow up past thirteen?” he heard Natalie ask in exasperation as he saw through tear-streaked eyes and a stomach that was starting to hurt, step out of the smaller room. Wiping his eyes as tried to control himself, he saw that she had her arms cross over her chest and was dressed quite properly. She was shaking her head in a very oddly similar manner that most of the Sackett family had adopted. There was not even telltale strands of her tied back hair that gave way to the idea that both she and Ben had been engaged in some spur of the moment passions. It was that detail that started sobering him up from his laughter – trust Ben, ever the pious reverend's son, to adhere to his promised declaration with regards to the marital bed.

“Nope,” Carrie answered in between bouts of laughter.

“There's got to be something you're here for,” Natalie stated, still looking irritatingly at them. “Otherwise, you'd find better entertainment to suit whatever you're into between two consenting adults at Elizabethtown. Not here.”

“Yeah,” Caleb answered as he finally gained some control over himself and managed to calm himself down enough to answer. “Got a request from Hamilton that Washington wants specifically us two, Tall-boy, to check out while he's not in camp.”

“While the cat's away, the mice still slave away?” Carrie quipped.

“What?” he asked, unsure what she meant.

“Nevermind...” she said, waving her hand. “Guess its back to work for me then as well.”

“When does Washington want this patrol to be done?” Ben asked, after huffing out a sigh, but still carrying an expression that was a cross between irritated and embarrassed.

“Well, now,” he answered, giving him an apologetic shrug. “Sorry...”

“No, no, let's just get this over with then,” his friend stated before swiping his three pistols off of the main desk and quickly armed himself with them before taking his boot knife and sabre as well. He saw him briefly reach out and squeeze Natalie's hands before leaving without another word.

Caleb turned and silently followed, now feeling guilty that he had been laughing at discovering that his friend was trying to keep his private life, private. He knew that he shouldn't have, even in the moment of discovery, for Ben did not have the freedoms he, Caleb, had as an agent. Everything was cloak and dagger to them, to the Culper Ring, and with all that had happened, especially in light of New Haven, families, relationships, were liabilities to all of them. Caleb supposed that he was lucky that Genevieve was a tavern girl – a beautiful one that he loved to bed on the occasions that he had been there and considered making her his wife one day – but she was not in as grave danger as his friends' families and relationships. His uncle was still living safely in Philadelphia under the care of a few old family friends that he knew of, but that was the extent of his own personal liabilities – not counting Abe, Ben, and his fellow agent friends – he knew that they knew if they were caught, they would be used against each other.

Ben... Ben didn't have that luxury. Reverend Tallmadge had been used against Ben, and had paid the price. Caleb was no fool to know that Natalie could have easily taken the place of the reverend, had any of the enemy have known that Ben cared for her in a more intimate way. As he followed his friend out and to their horses, which had already been saddled just before Caleb begun his search throughout the camp for Ben, silently he knew that he was in the wrong for what he had done. Ben didn't deserve laughter when caught out spending a moment of peace with the woman he loved, he deserved support.

“Hey, Ben,” he said as he took the lead and guided them towards where Washington's orders for scouting via Hamilton, were to take them, “I'm sorry about earlier.” Silence answered his apology. Deciding it was better to not glance over at his friend, he instead, kicked his horse up to a trot – it was getting late and if Washington wanted them to scout something then they had to do so before night fully settled.

“I suppose that Natalie and I should be more careful next time,” he heard Ben stated after a few minutes of listening to the huffs of the horses in their trot and the hooves pounding on the ground.

“Listen, mate,” he said, glancing over to see that there was a forlorn expression upon his friend's face. “If you two need some time alone, no matter the reason, just let me know. I'll cover for both of you and you can go do whatever you need to do in a rented room or something. Neither of you need to stay at camp, Ben. I always got your backs.”

He saw the edges of Ben's lips quirk up slightly before hearing him say, “Thanks, Caleb, but I don't think neither of us are near the bedroom in our relationship... or we'll ever be.”

“Ben...” he began, frowning.

“I need to let her go,” Ben quietly stated, almost soft enough that Caleb was barely able to hear it over the sound of the wind and hooves on the ground. “This is a dream that was never meant to last. But I can't quit her.”

“Can't or won't, Tall-boy?” he asked. There was no answer.

As the two of them rode in silence, it was after they emerged from a small forest and entered the field where Hamilton had indicated that Washington had requested them to go here, that Caleb saw something strange in the middle of the field and halted his horse at the same time Ben did. Two riders, with one whose profile upon their horses were quite prominent and recognizable to anyone in the field of battle or otherwise, were waiting in the middle of the field.

“General Washington?” Ben called out, quite puzzled before casting a glance over at him.

Caleb shrugged, he thought that it had been odd that Hamilton had relayed the scouting area to be near the safe heart of their controlled borders, but an order was an order, especially if it was from the old man himself and so close to deployment. He saw Laurens, the other rider waiting next to their commander, beckon them over. Complying, both he and Ben nudged their horses through the high wheat field until they stopped before Washington and Laurens.

“Major Tallmadge, Lieutenant Brewster,” Washington began without preamble, “I apologize for our meeting out here, but with the camp about to embark, there are many eyes focused on their own preparations and not enough on the security of the camp.”

Their commander gestured to Laurens who pulled out four small sacks no bigger than a small pouch that held musket balls, out of a saddlebag. Except that these sacks looked a lumpier and more oddly shaped than musket balls. As Laurens handed them two sacks each, Washington continued to say, “I trust this mission to no others than those who know of how to utilize these to great effect. Both of you and two others of your choosing will leave tonight and make your way up to Fort West Point. There you shall infiltrate and destroy the powder stores that have been marked in the reports.”

As Washington fell silent, Laurens spoke up saying, “According to Major Jefferson, all you need to do is press the center of the cluster to activate the explosives. He has tried to extend the timer as much as possible, but there are variations from thirty seconds to possibly a minute before the explosives detonate.”

“Understood sir,” Ben said, and hastily, Caleb agreed, though he managed to keep most of his surprise from showing on his face. He didn't expect Washington of all people, specifically including him in this mad mission.

“False reports have already been leaked to the mole within Lieutenant General Washington's cadre indicating that there will be a group attempting to infiltrate during Major Jefferson's assault from the north and downriver. That will be your cover to slip in,” Washington stated. “I wish the both of you and the two you chose to accompany you a good hunt.”

* * *

_New Haven_

 

It was worse than he had thought it would be as Abe held the letter written by Culper 355, Abigail, who had traveled up to Boston with her son, Cicero, a few weeks ago to find better opportunities for employment and a safer place for them to live and settle. His hands shook once, as he reread the elegant handwriting that contained the simplest of a message encoded under the four layers of the codebook. Then he let loose a string of curses, glad that the office was complete empty at this time of the day. It was Sunday, a day of rest, but not for him. He would attend the evening service to make up for his absence in the morning service, though he knew that he really should not be working too hard on this day. Still...

Folding the letter, he stuffed it into a vest pocket and gathered the necessary documents he needed into a folio – it was a day of rest, but it would not be for him or for Miss Arnold – he needed to find out the truth. Exiting the office, he locked the door and strolled out of the building. There was barely a soul around as he headed towards the church that the Arnold family attended. When he arrived, parishioners were already exiting the church and he caught a glimpse of Mary carrying Thomas, along with Anna and Selah exiting. A little behind them were Miss Arnold and her family.

Giving a wave towards Mary, he gave her a smile before pointing to the folio that was in his hands. She silently nodded in understanding. Stepping up towards the Arnolds, he politely greeted them, saying, “Miss Arnold and Mrs. Arnold, if I may have a moment of your time today, I have a couple of things to discuss with you both.”

“Why yes, of course, Mr. Underhill,” Peggy said, before shooing the two boys off to go play with the other children while smaller groups lingered at the front steps and near the street of the church. Others slowly made their way down the streets to carry on with whatever they did on a Sunday.

Leading the two women to a more secluded place but still within the view of everyone else for he did not want anything to be misconstrued, especially not in view of his wife and child, he opened up the folio and gestured towards the signed and sealed document that had been completed on Friday. “This is the extension of the hearing that was supposed to happen, Miss Arnold,” he stated. “Now, I know that you've stated that General Arnold's eldest son is studying in Boston and you do not want his studies to be interrupted, but I afraid that since there's rumors of impending skirmishes happening, which will most likely take your brother away from here for a while, we will need to interrupt his son's studies. Where exactly is he?”

“In Boston, as I have said, Mr. Underhill,” Miss Arnold stated, frowning slightly. “I shall write to him to recall him in a few weeks time.”

“You misunderstand me, Miss Arnold,” he said. “I made some discreet inquiries as to the location of the boy in Boston since we can no longer stall the hearing, and no one has seen or heard of him.”

“How dare you--”

“Hannah,” Peggy gently interrupted, placing a calming hand upon Miss Arnold's arm, “its true. Please. I've asked my friends as well... and no one has seen the boy. Where is he?”

The affronted look that Miss Arnold maintained was excruciatingly painful to continue to look at, but Abe held himself still and continued to look her directly in the eyes. He kept reciting to himself that this was for Ben's sake and for the Continental Army's sake – and just when he almost could no longer tolerate it, Miss Arnold finally gave in. Her expression collapse into utter despair as she whispered, “He was taken.”

“What?” he said, leaning in, hoping that he had heard her wrong.

“He was taken just before Mr. Graves... no Simcoe...whomever he is, left for his three-month absence to inquire about goods from southern merchants,” the woman said, continuing to whisper. “I don't know who took him, but Simcoe... he knew about it and he was the one who suggested covering it up by saying that the boy was studying in Boston... oh how I believed him...”

“Christ...” Abe could not help but whisper. “That's before the battles in Rhode Island...”

“What?” both Peggy and Miss Arnold asked at the same time.

“No, nothing,” he quickly answered, shaking his head, “I just read the gazettes a lot. Wanting to know how our boys are doing on the front and all.” He closed the folio and said, “Do not worry Miss Arnold... I'll find a way to fix this--”

“You can't, Mr. Underhill,” she said, shaking her head, looking as if she were about to burst into tears. “You can't... because once they took the boy, I started receiving threatening messages from whomever had taken him. They told me he was still alive but if I didn't report my brother's movements or the little information he wrote to me about the Continental Army, they would kill the boy. They kept sending small locks of his hair with each letter I receive to tell me that he is still alive.”

Abe took a step back in utter shock as he flung out a hand and steadied himself against the bark of the tree they were standing under. “How... what monsters... Miss Arnold, I need to see those letters, and I need to know if you're still writing to them. I will help you with this – you have my word. We will get your nephew back. Can you do that for me – can you bring me those letters?”

She sniffed, not quite in tears yet, but with the strong, comforting arm of Peggy around her shoulders, she nodded, saying, “I will bring them tomorrow to your office, Mr. Underhill.”

“Stay strong, Miss Arnold, Mrs Arnold,” he said, tucking the folio under his right arm before clasping their hands. As soon as they left, he leaned heavily against the tree, but dared not make any movement that would betray what he really felt about the situation. Not even a minute later, Mary approached him, with little Thomas in tow and grasping onto one of her hands. He felt her slip her empty hand into his and gently squeeze it. However, instead of looking at her, he could not help but stare at the retreating forms of the Arnold family – it was much worse than either he or Ben could have anticipated, and he needed to let Ben know.

* * *

_Later that night..._

 

“I'd never though that Simcoe would take a boy hostage,” Abe heard Anna say as he felt the table shift slightly and glanced up to see her take a seat opposite of him, a cup of coffee in her hands.

“I wouldn't think of that shite capable of anything other than utter destruction of person and property,” he said, as he glanced down and continued to write his report in code. Several stacks of law books, along with parchment containing non-coded notes relating to the Arnold case were spread out from where he was, covering almost half of the table. The folio that he had carried and presented earlier today was sitting at the topmost part of the stacks.

“Abe!” he heard the admonishing tone of his wife, who was sitting next to him, bouncing Thomas on her knees, say. “Language!”

“Sorry,” he absently answered as he dipped his quill back into the ink and continued to write. Pausing as he got to the part where he contacted 355 in Boston for information, he placed the quill down and pulled out her letter. Unfolding it, he placed it on the table, next to the report pages that had already dried. He was already on the sixth page of the report, and though he knew that it would take Ben a while to decode the report, it was necessary that he know exactly how it got to this point.

“Does it have to be you that goes to Springfield, Abraham?” Anna asked after a few moments of silence.

“I said it before and I'll say it again,” he said, scratching out an exact copy of 355's coded words. “I have an excuse to be up there – if Arnold's there, I'll say that I have news for him and search for Ben, since he's probably still there. If Arnold's not there, but Ben is, I'll just discreetly drop off the report.”

“What if neither are there? Can't you just leave it at the dead drop? Caleb will come once the signal is given.”

“Caleb's already in Morristown and with all things considered, getting from New Jersey to Connecticut is a lot more riskier now. If this crosses enemy lines and is intercepted by British forces, there's too much of a risk for them to decode even a part of it and extrapolate from those parts – especially since Simcoe is probably still somewhere in southern Connecticut. If Ben's not in Springfield, I'll find some way to get the report to him.”

“Why not let one of those riders that our descendant commands carry the missive?” Mary suggested.

“Have you tried to talk to them since Mari came back all changed and acting stranger than she was when we initially met her?” he asked, glancing up at her. “I know they're around, but I honestly don't think they speak English and we don't speak their language.”

“They speak Russian,” Selah spoke up from where he was, behind the bar and cleaning the plates from the evening meal. “I overheard Agent Woodhull giving orders to one of her men in that language before both of them got lost in the crowds during market day. Heard about the language from Tallmadge's counterpart back in Setauket. They're not one to trifle with, and I don't think we're going to receive help from them unless our lives are in grave danger.”

“What, so Ben just sent a bunch of foreign soldiers down just to watch over us and let us stumble over ourselves in carrying out what he wants us to do?” Abe asked before sighing in exasperation.

A sudden knock on the tavern door startled all of them. Abe quickly shoved the letters under a pile of paperwork as Selah came from behind the bar and strode to the door. Snatching the folio off of the top of the stack, just as Mary took one of the law books and threw it open before shoving said book towards him, he heard Anna get up and quickly made her way to the back of the tavern, trying to look busy.

Selah cracked the door open and politely said, “I apologize, but we are not open for business tonight.”

“Please, good sir, I need to speak with Mr. Underhill. I was told that he resides here. It is a matter of utmost importance that cannot wait,” Abe heard the familiar tones of a feminine voice state in desperation.

“Let her in, Selah,” he said, not missing the slight thinning of Selah's lips in response to his request which was voiced more like an order than a request. However, there was no time to get into the semantics of it, and something in Peggy's words was causing a great amount of unease to bloom in his stomach.

To their surprise, in walked Peggy and two other children, both of them boys and red-eyed, clutching blankets with them, entered. “I'm sorry,” she said, as Abe and the others got up from their seats, staring at the three while Selah closed the door behind them. “I'm sorry, but I do not know where else the children could stay. I need to leave them here for a few days, and since you've been helping us so much--”

“Mrs. Arnold,” he said, holding out his hands as he took a few steps towards her. “What happened? What happened, Mrs. Arnold?”

“It happened so fast in front of the shop. It was dark enough that even lantern lights on the front of the carriage didn't show Hannah in the street until it was too late...”

“Oh God,” he heard Mary whisper as he found that his only actions were to raise his hands to his face, his mouth opened in utter horror. Even Anna and Selah were at a loss of words as they too could only gape at Peggy.

But he had to take charge – had to take command of the situation, because Ben had placed his faith in him to resolve this mess. “T-the children can stay...” he began, glancing over at Selah. “Can they, Selah?”

“Yes,” Anna answered, taking a few steps and closed the distance, kneeling down and hugging the children. “They can stay for as long as they need to.”

“Thank you,” Peggy weeped, “thank you Mrs...”

“Lawson,” Anna stated, using her alias, as she looked up, “Anna Lawson. That man over there is my husband, Selah. He owns this tavern.”

Peggy nodded, but it seemed that she was not done as she reached into the small pouch that she carried and withdrew a thickly folded batch of parchment and held it out to Abe, saying, “After what you discussed with us this morning, Hannah gave this to me when we returned home. Everything that she received is in there. She told me that Benedict has never even seen the letters.”

Abe took it and opened it as Anna and Mary took the children to the second floor and Selah gently guided Peggy to sit at the table before leaving her for a moment to bring back a cup of coffee. Reading page after page, the handwriting was unfamiliar to him, but the tone was quite threatening, giving him a very cold feeling in his stomach. It could have easily been Mary or worse yet, Thomas, taken hostage by some British soldier or Simcoe and Andre, had they not gotten out of Setauket in time – and that thought chilled him considerably.

As soon as he was done, he placed the letters down on the stack of papers that were piled on top of the report he had been writing to Ben and sat. “General Arnold is going to hear of his sister's death,” he quietly stated. “I can't do anything to stop that, and if whomever is holding--”

He paused for a moment as he saw Peggy nervously look around, noticing that Selah had only returned to his post behind the bar while Anna had come down the stairs, indicating that Mary was upstairs tending to the children. Amending his words to keep his friends' covers intact, he said, “They're going to know.”

“Then what do you suggest we do?” Peggy nervously asked.

“Keep the pretense up,” he quietly suggested. “Have you take up what she did.”

He saw her silently nod to his unspoken words, though there was a very strange and hesitant look in her eyes. “I should have mentioned this earlier today, Mr. Underhill, but I know of another officer within the Continental Army. He may be able to help, but my husband has an unfavorable opinion of him because of what he does. However, I know that he has resources that can possibly be used to find the boy,” she whispered. “I can contact him via my contacts in Boston if you believe that outside resources are needed, for I dare not tell Benedict about his son. He would lose all hope, and I know that the Continental Army cannot lose one of their commanders.”

“We may not yet have need of this Continental officer you know,” he said, keeping the frown of suspicion from appearing on his face. “Your contacts in Boston...if I may see your correspondence with them? Perhaps there is something in there that I can use to help bolster the case? My own contacts were more of the unsavory types, those who work the docks and the like – men if given enough coin, will report the truth to me. If I can write on behalf of you to your contacts, and have them give character reports for your husband, we may not need to bring in more outside resources.”

“H-here,” she said, reaching into her satchel and bringing out two neatly folded letters and handed it to him.

Taking it, he unfolded it and this time a clear frown appeared on his face. “This is your handwriting, Mrs. Arnold,” he said, pointing to the letters.

“W-we write in code,” she hesitatingly said, lowering her voice even further so that Abe had to strain to hear her. “Too many correspondences are intercepted each day, and I feared possible interception by those who may have taken the boy when I sent my missives to Boston.”

“Code?” he politely asked, trying to keep the unease from showing.

Silently, Peggy reached back into the satchel and withdrew two more folded letters and handed it to him. He opened it up and his eyes widened in surprise. The letters were encoded entirely in the same coding method that Culper agents used. He could read both the transcribed letters, and they matched each other word for word. Was this woman sitting in front of him a Culper agent as well? If she was, then it made sense that she would have another contact within the Continental Army – one who potentially had resources to solve this problem – and that would be Ben. But hadn't Ben already told him, Abe, to solve the Arnold problem?

However, it seemed that Peggy had mistaken his surprise for something else as she stated, “If you write your words that you want to send to my contacts, I can transcribe into the code we use to keep our messages secret.”

Deciding that there was one more question he could ask her to truly test her loyalty and her truthfulness in her words, he asked, “It would be easier for me to word my letters if I knew who you were contacting, Peggy. Who wrote these to you?”

“Acquaintances of mine,” she said after a moment, taking the letters back. “Please, I fear for my family's safety. It has to be this way. If you'll not help, then I shall have to utilize other means to get help--”

Abe held up a hand, and said in a louder tone, “I'll get this to Major Tallmadge.”

She stared at him, and then turned to see that both Selah and Anna were gaping at both of them. “Y-you know Major Tallmadge?” she asked after a moment, returning her attention to him.

“Yeah,” he said, before plunging into the first lie that surfaced in his thoughts, “we went to school together, at Yale, though I was studying law and he... well, he became a schoolmaster. When you mentioned knowing another Continental officer who had resources that could help, I thought you might have been talking about Major Tallmadge, and considering the news that came out of Boston last autumn, it would not surprise me that you know of him. After reuniting with him in the middle of the attack on New Haven this past winter, he asked me to help him look into this. I owe him my life, so consider this my priority over any other clerking duties I have.” He gestured to Selah, saying, “Selah here let me use his contacts in Boston when I was searching for news about the boy, so he knows a little about your predicament. You can trust him and his wife, along with my own wife, Mary – who is upstairs, by the way – to keep this quiet.”

Silence met his spun tale as he saw, out of the corner of his eyes, Anna pouring two diluted cups of coffee into mugs and bring the tray up the stairs. There was no doubt in his mind that Anna was going to inform Mary of the story he had just spun so that they could keep their covers safe while utilizing the common knowledge that they all knew Ben. It would be easier for them to talk and plan on how to clean up this mess.

However, there was no way around it, and though Abe was surprised that the woman sitting before him was a Culper agent, he supposed that he should not be. Agents from Philadelphia had replaced most of them in New York, so there was no reason why he could not assume that Ben recruited more agents up and down the coast. It was also no wonder why Ben looked like he was losing a lot of sleep each time Abe had seen him over the winter – the man was running a very large intelligence network. However, that also meant that Culper agent or not, Peggy Arnold did not need to know that he and Anna, and by extension, Selah and Mary were Culper agents. Simcoe, Director Andre, and Major Andre were still out there, and New Haven was still the safest place they could be in.

“When will you leave?”

“Tonight,” he stated. “I'll take the decoded letters with me, along with my own correspondence. If I see General Arnold at Springfield, I'll let him know that the paperwork is coming along. I won't tell him about the boy yet, but I need you to stall the captors. The best we can do is continue to report falsehoods to them until I can get Major Tallmadge all of the information he needs.”

She nodded but gave him both sets of letters back, saying, “Take both. It'll give Major Tallmadge proof that I'm not lying.”

“I'll take Mrs. Arnold back, Underhill,” Selah said, coming out from behind the bar, wiping his hands on a rag before tossing the rag on top of the counter top. “Might I ask where are you staying for the moment?”

“Dancing Gnome Inn,” she said, standing up at the same time he did. “Thank you. All of you.”

“It is the least we can do, Mrs. Arnold,” he said as kindly as he could before both she and Selah departed.

As soon as the door to the tavern closed, he sighed and closed his eyes, dropping into his chair. He heard the creak of footsteps coming down and opened his eyes to see both Anna and Mary standing at the foot of the stairs. “She's a Culper agent,” he simply said, throwing up his hands and shaking his head. “She's a Culper agent and Ben didn't tell us. What the hell is he thinking?!”

“Abe,” Anna began.

“Look!” he said, stabbing a finger at the two encoded letters he had in his hand. “That's Culper codebook encoding! Written from a Mr. Ethan Archer and a Mr. Archibald James of Boston.” Anna approached and took the letters from him, frowning as she read through them. “They're Culper agents as well if they can write back in that fashion and she can read it,” he continued to say. “Ben already had a Culper agent tailing Arnold, never mind that she's Arnold's wife, and he still wants us to risk our necks to stop the madness that Simcoe started?!”

“Maybe...” Anna said, giving him the letters back, “maybe he had a good reason for not telling us... maybe she's reporting to him in some other manner about General Arnold... maybe--”

“I don't care. I'm going to have more than words with Ben when I next see him! He does not have the right to play with our lives, especially after what Simcoe and Andre tried to do to all of us!” Abe stated. “He may have saved us, but if he doesn't trust us to tell us the truth or let us know what else is going on with this Arnold thing, then what the hell are we fighting for?”

* * *

_Fort West Point_

 

Getting into the fort was the easiest part, Ben decided as he jumped from where he had been perched and landed softly on the ground. Remaining in a crouch, he shuffled over to where Caleb, Andrew, and Brewster were, crouched and hidden behind a few tall shrubs. Because of the cliff that the fort stood upon, both the British and Britannian forces thought that posting a numerous amount of guards in that area was quite worthless – that no one would be mad enough to scale such a cliff face. The sun was past setting and dusk was rapidly giving way to night and a light fog. Fires burned merrily across the fort, giving light to those patrolling the second level of the fort and those below who sought some warmth in the early and still chilly spring night. The shadows they cast all over the place would be ideal to Ben and the others for their mission, but they also had to be careful to not cast shadows of their own as they snuck about.

Ben and the others had not, but they had instead, scaled the southwestern face of the fort, covered in all sorts of shrubs, low hanging and thick-barked trees that covered their treacherous route. The presence of numerous seagulls and crows cawing and fighting over fish in that area also made it ideal to conceal themselves from the more advanced measures that the enemy binoculars could employ. However, there were times where their route had nearly crumbled into the swift-flowing river after the first person to take a forward step. That and coupled with the pounding that Major Jefferson's Gauss cannons were raining upon both sides was shaking trees and ground – even as far away from the north side of the fort as they were.

“Exit route?” he heard Caleb whisper as the ground shook once again.

“North side,” he stated. “Rendezvous with Jefferson's barges when he pulls back. River jump if that is compromised.”

“We may get caught in the chains, sir,” Brewster stated.

“Then don't,” he answered. “Caleb, with me. We'll take the west shed. Andrew and Brewster, take the east shed.

“Yes, sir,” both of the future-people said.

He would have paired Caleb with his descendant, but considering the propensity that both had for getting into trouble, he did not need it here and now. This was a mission of stealth, to hit the heart of the fort before Washington could bring the full might of the Continental Army upon the fort. This was a mission entrusted to him, based upon his idea that he had presented all those weeks ago, and he would carry it out to the best of his abilities.

“Move out!” he hissed and dashed up. Two steps into his sprint towards the next cover spot, he heard a cry of pain from behind him and turned back to see Caleb falling. His world suddenly turned into a hazy one as near-panic briefly overwhelmed him, causing all sounds around him to be muffled.

“Caleb!” he heard himself scream, halting himself as he scrambled back towards his friend. Snatching him by the collar of his long coat, the faint sound of another marksman's laser whizzed past his ears as he dove and dragged both of them into cover behind the nearest cluster of support poles he could find.

“Caleb!” the shout of Brewster and Andrew at the same time knocked him back into his senses as the sounds of a tolling warning bell was faintly heard from the far side of the fort and gradually made its way to where they were.

“Agh! Goddammit!” Caleb shouted, letting go of his sack of explosives and clutching at his leg which had been shot cleanly through the meaty part of his shin by a laser. There was a little blood trickling through the wound, but it had been completely cauterized by the laser, though Ben was very unsure if his friend could even walk, much less run and get out of here without assistance.

“Brewster, take him and go!” he shouted as the warning bell kept on ringing and the sounds of hundreds of boots pounding on the ground got ever closer to them.

“Not without you, Ben!” Caleb said, somehow managing to throw him a very angry glare through the hazy pain in his eyes.

Ben gritted his teeth, tearing his eyes away from his friend and looked squarely at Brewster ordering, “Lieutenant get him out of here. Andrew and I will catch up with you after dumping these into the powder stores.”

“Sir,” he heard Brewster begin, hesitating for a split second before dropping what was left of her sack of explosives and snapping to. “Don't die, sir.” she stated as she hauled Caleb up as if he were a sack of grain over her shoulders and with a curt nod towards him, hurried away.

“I'll try not to, Lieutenant,” he murmured as he glanced up at Andrew who merely gave him a silent nod, picked up Brewster's explosives, and headed towards eastern powder shed. He picked the sack up and this time, ducking back into immediate cover, headed towards the west. The tolling bells continued and there were many murmurs in the air along with marching feet – some responding to the barrage that Jefferson's Gauss cannon barges were inflicting upon the north side of the fort, some to where the marksman had alerted for intruders. He would not put it past his hunch that the marksman that had made them was one of the two assassins who had slipped the Naugatuck net.

Twice he had to duck into the shadows, flattening himself between rough bark poles of the walls that ringed around the fort and the scaffolding that held the upper levels aloft. With both British and Britannians frenziedly trying to find the intruders, he was almost caught more than three times, but each time, he threw himself and his sacks to the grassy ground that dotted the area, hoping that the thick grasses and wild brush within the fort hid him well enough. However, when he finally got to the open path that stood between him, the wall he was hiding behind, and the powder store, it was too late.

Redcoats were swarming the large shed, carrying small barrels of gunpowder out of the shed. However, among the redcoats were those dressed similar to militiamen or cowboys, with only their blue caps and single feather sticking out of the middle identifying them as Sheridan's Rangers. He had no choice, and knowing that Washington and the others were closing in and would be attacking soon, he could not back down now.

Sliding down, he opened the sacks and armed the explosives, hearing them start to softly beep as if they were baby chicks hungry for food. He hoped that he had enough time to get away, but it didn't matter if several of the clusters did not land in the powder store – only one had to. Standing back up, he took a step out and flung the sacks with all of his might at the shed. The clusters rained down from the sky, scattering far and wide, startling the redcoats and Rangers – and Ben saw more than one land inside of the shed. Just as they turned to see who had thrown such objects, Ben dashed away.

“After him!” he heard one of them yell as they gave way to chase him.

Plowing through the thick brush, he heard and felt the _ptwot-ptwot_ musket balls fly perilously close to him as the piercing _pew-pew_ sounds of the laser rifles lit everything around him, even some of the grass, on fire. However, as he turned the corner of another wall of the fort, he skidded to a halt as an entire firing line and then some of laser rifles and flintlocks were pointed straight at him. He could not turn back as the sounds of those who had been at the powder store had finally caught up to him as he heard the familiar charged bee-like buzz-whine of the rifles behind him.

Slowly raising his hands in the air in surrender, he knelt down on the ground on his knees and placed his hands behind his head. “I surrender,” he stated, carefully watching all of those around him, especially those soldiers who were nervously fingering the trigger on their weapons. “I am an officer of the Continental Army--”

“You are a spy and you shall be treated as such.”

Blood drained from Ben's face as he saw a person push through, clean-shaven, with his long wheat-colored hair tied back in a queue much like his own, but wearing the colors and colonial outfit that the Sheridan's Rangers had adopted. A laser rifle was slung over his shoulder and he was holding the base of the weapon in a casual manner, but Ben knew better than to trust that he was not going to get shot in the immediate future.

“Tallmadge,” he stated in the most neutral of tones that he could manage as his counterpart stopped in front of him and crouched down so that they were eye-level with each other.

“Major,” his counterpart stated in the same tone, inflection, and accent, sending chills down his back. “Do you know what we do to spies when they are caught behind enemy lines, even officers such as yourself?” There was a pause and Ben remained defiantly silent. “They hang. As you will hang.”

“If I hang now, you will cease to exist,” he stated.

“No, I won't,” Tallmadge answered, giving him a thinly sinister smile. “Thanks to Commandant Sheridan, all I or my brother need is a sample of your blood to keep ourselves alive, and quite frankly, we can wait until after you're stretched to retrieve that. You see, Major, history no longer needs you.”

Ben only had a brief moment to realize what that horrifying revelation implied, before an enormous, fiery explosion engulfed the fort.

 

~*~*~*~

 


	30. Mission Impossible: Fort West Point (Pt. 2)

**Chapter 30: Mission Impossible: Fort West Point (Pt. 2)**

 

_A few days ago..._

 

“George,” Washington heard Arnold state as he heard his friend enter his tent amid the sounds of many men in the midst of getting ready to depart from the temporary camp that had been set up as the army moved north towards their destination.

“Benedict,” he answered in kind, placing the magnifying glass and report that he had been quickly rereading, down. “What brings you here? Would you like to sit?”

“No, no,” he saw his friend shake his head slightly before taking another hobbling step further into the tent. “I just had some concerns about this plan... about our continued dependency on the white-haired witch and her supernatural soldiers.”

Washington reined in the heavy sigh that he wanted to exhale as he briefly closed his eyes and tried to master his annoyance and anger. Opening his eyes again, he leaned forward slightly, placing the splayed tips of his fingers on the desk and said, “I asked for questions and concerns when we discussed the final plan two days ago, Benedict. Know that it is only because of our friendship that I listen now. What are your concerns?”

“We depend on them to ride up from the south and smash into the fort,” his friend began, “but what if they do not show? We certainly do not have the combined numbers to take the fort by ourselves, even with _foreign_ help.”

“It is a concern that I have already taken into account, my friend,” he said, “though I do sense that that is not what is truly bothering you. You've never been one to not speak your mind, so please, do so, so that I do not have to continue to stand here as a young maiden with no sense would.”

“My debts,” Arnold said, leaning against his cane for a moment before straightening himself. “You know of them, of how that snake of a man, this Captain John Graves Simcoe of the British, forced my sister to sign ownership of lands that I now do not have the means to pay for or sell at purchased price.”

“I do,” he carefully answered, keeping his tone even with a slight sympathetic slant to it. His Head of Intelligence had told him the full report of what exactly had happened and how Simcoe was not actually Captain Simcoe but the Deputy Director from the future – but Arnold did not need to know about that; did not need to become embroiled in the fullness of the mess that was ancestors and descendants. He wanted his friend to have plausible way to deny that knowledge if ever questioned by Congress.

Arnold was already quite blunt and he knew how much his temper did much to not endear him to many in Congress or other generals in the Continental Army, even when the man was the best field commander he had. To keep his friend from the Britannian and US Army ancestor-descendant mess that his Head of Intelligence was entangled in was the best course of action should anything go wrong – he depended on Arnold's heroic stature to continue to lead the Continental Army if he, Washington, fell. Of course, he never hoped that it would come to that, but after two attempted assassinations, with one that nearly succeeded, he was not leaving anything to chance.

“You know that I have several clerks and Magistrate Clayton working on my behest to clear my name from those illegal documents,” Arnold continued. “But I fear that they are dragging their feet for I cannot pay them because Congress still has not paid me in full for all that I've spent and the years that I've served. This Mr. Underhill that is the primary clerk--”

“Benedict,” he said, straightening himself and holding up a hand, “we both know that Congress still does not have the means. However, I shall see that the services of Colonel Hamilton's skills from his days studying law at King's College are made available to you. After we take West Point.”

However, it seemed that that was not the end to their conversation, for though Arnold murmured a stiff but grateful, “Thank you,” Washington saw him uncharacteristically hesitate for a moment before saying, “It is the most inopportune time, but it is the only time that we may receive. I may not like that white-haired witch and her people, but I have need of their resources. I only ask that she spare three or four men from her forces for this task, for I have exhausted all of my own resources since Rhode Island for this task.”

He was silent for a moment as the most unusual of feelings, unease, swept through him. Arnold had been engaged in a particular secret task that he knew nothing about and he wondered if the history that the future-people had spoken about, of Arnold betraying him and the Continental Army, was about to pass. Was his friend about to confess that he had passed along their assault plans since Rhode Island? “Why?” he asked, keeping the trepidation he felt from coloring his tone.

“My eldest son is missing. I know not where he has run off to, for this happened before the devilish Captain Simcoe plied his snake-tongue upon my family. I am in need of those resources that you used to search for Major Tallmadge when he went missing during the Rhode Island battles.”

“Major Tallmadge was gravelly wounded during the battles and taken to Boston to recover, not missing,” Washington stated. Again, it was because of the entire ancestors- descendants debacle that he did not want his friend to become involved in that he told the half-truth to him.

“Don't,” Arnold warned, holding up a finger, “just don't George. Don't lie to me about Tallmadge. I know he was captured and you sent two men equipped with those unnatural things to search for him – no man would have made it out of the Rhode Island battles without other officers or soldiers noticing – not with what was happening. You can lie to the others, George, but don't. Not to me. Please not to me. I need that same resource you used, George.”

Washington thinned his lips for a moment as he silently looked at his friend. He had not authorized or sent Major Jefferson and Lieutenant Brewster to look for Tallmadge – he had not even known that Tallmadge had been briefly held captive by enemy agents last year until captured MI6 agent, Robb Townsend, had confessed. “I cannot spare resources at the moment, Benedict--”

“Two men, George. Two!” Arnold begged.

He remained adamant and shook his head before saying, “We are on the eve of battle--”

“My own son, George! My own flesh-and-blood, and yet you spared two to send after a son not of your own flesh-and-blood--”

“ _After_ we take West Point,” he interjected, anger clearly evident in the tone of his voice. “After we take the fort,” he repeated in a quieter tone. “After.”

The silence that sat between them was uncomfortable to say the least, but at long last, leaning heavily on his cane, he heard Arnold finally say in a quiet tone, “I will hold you to that promise, George.”

* * *

_And now, the continuation..._

 

“Ben!” Caleb screamed as the ground beneath them violently shook, throwing both he and Carrie face first into the dirt as a sudden wave of heat seared across the skies, carried by a gusty, smoke-filled wind. He immediately tried to turn and scramble up, but the agonizing pain stabbing through the leg he had been shot through prevent him from fully standing. “Ben!” he shouted again, his voice hoarse as he sat on his knees, watching in despair as the towering inferno of flames licked upwards from the portion of the fort that burned.

He was suddenly jerked back and forcibly dragged away by the collar of his long coat and as he twisted around, trying to get free, he saw that it was Carrie who was dragging him away from the inferno. She had her rifle out and was warily looking around. “On your feet, soldier!” she ordered in a commanding tone that he had never heard from her before.

“We have to go back!” he shouted, using the momentum of her dragging him back to pry himself up as best as possible. She paused for a moment as he took his own rifle out and powered it up. A stinging sensation of what felt like bees pressing into his cauterized wound nearly caused him to black out as he fell to one of his knees. “Christ!” he cursed as he glanced back to see Carrie pressing something into the wound – something that strangely sealed the gaping hole up, looking like a cloth of sorts.

“That should hold you until we get to friendly lines,” she curtly said, hauling him up. “On your feet, soldier! We have to go!”

“Not without Ben!” he said, forcibly shaking his arm out of her grasp.

His insolence was rewarded with a stinging slap to his face, surprising him, but not as much as he saw the flash of shock and apology cross her face before it disappeared behind the mask of utter stoicism. “Andrew will get him to safety, Caleb,” she stated, “We only have our rifles, no cartridges to refill, and no horses. We are sitting ducks here in the middle of the British-Britannian army and unless you want to get yourself captured or killed, we need to get reinforcements. Our job was to get in, blow the joint, and get out. There are two ways to get out. We get reinforcements, and we come back and kick their asses.”

She was right, and even though Caleb feared for Ben's safety, he could not argue against Carrie's sound logic. The irrational side of him wanted to say to hell with it and go back in and shoot every Britannian and British soldier still left alive, but he would be putting himself in danger – and he knew that both he and Ben had been in perilous situations before, separately and together. They would make it through this, he knew they would – and it was a mantra he repeated to himself as he got up with Carrie's assistance and together, they continued to run.

* * *

The first thing Ben heard was the constant drip of water. While it was not a drip-drip-drip, but more like a drip...drip...drip sound, it gave him comfort to know that he was not dead – at least he thought he wasn't. The second thing that bloomed in his awareness was pain. While not as excruciating as the shoulder and gut wounds that he had received thus far, it was the sensation of stinging cuts mixing in with rivulets of sweat, blood, and muddy dirt that wholly contributed to the fire that crawled across his body. Then came the chill that swept through his already damp skin and as another quick breeze, along with the faint sounds of boots scuffing across stone floors. He opened his eyes.

Blinking the haze as best as he could away as yet another breeze from a passing person gently inflamed the agonizing pain throughout his body, Ben realized that he had felt this sort of strange, amplified feeling before. He had been drugged with the same thing that he had been drugged with in Philadelphia – the same type of strange injection that made everything he felt so much more acutely painful. That was also when he became aware that he was stripped of his clothes – all the way down to what little modicum of modesty he had left, his drawers. He was also hanging from irons shackled around his wrists at an angle that made him bear his own weight across wrenched shoulders and an aching back. Cold, short-chained irons were wrapped around his ankles, giving him little slack to adjust himself so that he was not leaning forward by the tip of his toes.

With merrily burning torches ringed around the stone walls that he found himself kept in, looking more like a cavern than wooden structure, he could see that it was wider than he thought it was. There were no iron bars surrounding him, but the cavern looked unnaturally carved and it was a lot larger than he had anticipated. There was an entrance of sorts on the far left side and it looked as if it led up to somewhere else. On the opposite side, closer to where he was, was another entrance, but with stairs that led further down. Two wooden doors on the opposite side of where he was hanging, were closed, space far apart. Was he in a stone-walled, multi-layered cellar? He couldn't tell, but it would very unusual to be in one since all cellars he knew were earthen packed and held up by support posts and a strong foundation of wood, and only had one direction for up and down.

The walls around him and the 'cellar' he was chained up in shook as low thumps were heard, and from that, he could only assume that he was still in West Point. At least he hoped he was. Instead of paying attention to the thumps, he focused on the strange activity that was happening in the center of the opposite side, book ended by the two closed doors.

There were two long tables laid out, and he could see the faint colors of the clothing that were laid out – two blue jackets side-by-side with white lining and trimmings and burnished brass buttons, and silver-fringed epaulets shaped in a three-leafed clover. Two pairs of black, shin-high riding boots, stockings, beige breeches and matching-colored vests, white shirts, and black cravats. All were laid out side-by-side, and there were more than one person at the tables, inspecting one item before marking the other. As he watched them, he slowly came to realize that one of the Rangers inspecting the first item, say a right boot, would hurry to the same second pair of boot and make a mark that made the two right boots identical-looking.

“Is it done yet?” a familiar voice demanded as Ben saw Director Andre, wearing a simple, plain colonial-era outfit that could make him blend quite easily in with civilians, enter from the left.

“Nearly there, sir,” one of the Rangers at the tables stated.

“Well come on, hurry up. We haven't gotten all day with this siege that the Continentals are attempting and presenting us the most perfect of opportunities,” the man stated as he clapped his hands together twice causing Ben to wince at how overly loud the sound was to his sensitive ears.

Unfortunately, his movement jangled the chains and also caught the attention of the Director as he saw him turn and approach – eyes lighting up in a wicked manner. “Awake now, are we, Major?” Andre asked, stopping quite uncomfortably close to him, with their noses nearly touching. Ben remained silent and refrained from giving into his baser instincts to lash out and attempt to knock his forehead into the man's nose.

“I promise Major, if you answer my questions, I will not have to use cruel and unusual methods to get you to talk,” the man stated.

He remained silent and continued to focus his vision past the wretched face of the director. However, it seemed that the mad man had other things on mind, and with a rather elaborate sigh, Ben saw him step away and head towards one of the two doors on the other side and opened it. The room it revealed was no bigger than a broom cupboard, with only a single torch lighting up the inside. However, there was a person already occupying the closet and he was standing upon a stool with a noose hanging around his neck. The young man's clothes were incredibly soiled, but even under all of that caked mess, he recognized who it was – James Hattersfield, one of his spies.

“When did your correspondence and exchange of information with MI6 Deputy Director Jonathan Simcoe begin?” the Director asked.

Ben had no idea what the mad man was talking about, but he found it oddly puzzling that Director Andre thought he was exchanging information with a known agent enemy. He decided that remaining silent and allowing the man to continue to give him information through questions would be the best course of action and focused his attention on the young man at the noose. Recognition shined in his agent's eyes as James saw him, and Ben's heart momentarily seized as he saw the young man give a very quick shake of his head before holding himself prouder and taller upon the hangman's noose. James had not given up a word, even after being caught, and even in the face of death, he was not going to beg for his life.

“So be it,” Director Andre stated after a moment, and suddenly kicked the stool out from Hattersfield's legs, dropping the young man to his fate.

“No!” Ben hoarsely cried, his chest burning as he forced the word out. Even his strangled cry of denial had caused the two Rangers who were matching marks upon clothes to momentarily pause in their work. James was struggling in the throes of being choked to death, but even as the Director walked away, it seemed that neither of the two Rangers were paying much attention to their surroundings or to his cry, quite apathetic of the fact that there was someone dying behind them.

“What in God's name are you doing, Director?!”

Ben tore his eyes away from his dying agent and towards the entrance to the left, seeing that a British officer, wearing the full regalia of a Major, and looking exactly like Director Andre enter. It was none other than Major John Andre, and he looked incredibly furious and affronted at what was before him.

“Questioning--”

“Bite your tongue, _Director_ ,” Andre hissed before stiffly passing both of them, heading towards where James was still struggling. Mercifully, Ben saw him yank on the legs of the young man, snapping James's neck and giving him a quicker death. Dusting his hands after performing the mercy kill, Ben watched with trepidation crawling down his spine as Major Andre then approached the surprisingly silent Director Andre. “We _do not_ treat or question prisoners in this fashion, especially not officers of the Continental Army.”

“But you do starve them and imprison them on the _Jersey_ , do you not, Major Andre?” the Director asked in a conversational tone that did not match the demeanor he carried. It reminded Ben a little too much of the same type of demeanor that he had seen and heard from Simcoe when last he was captured and imprisoned in Connecticut. He saw that the Director's words had greatly affected the Major, for Andre had paused in his steps and silently glared at the man.

“He's watching your civil war brew, sirs,” a new voice spoke up from the left entrance, momentarily drawing Ben's attention away to see that his counterpart was standing at the left entrance, crossing his arms over his chest. Tallmadge gave both of them a very unfriendly smile before saying, “Best take your domestic upstairs, gents, or else he's going to think you're already an old married couple.”

“That is... abnormal, Tallmadge,” Major Andre stated, but understood the underlying meaning to the words stated. At least Ben thought he understood what his traitorous descendant was saying – for the two Andres to shut their mouths and stop arguing in front of him and giving him insight as to how divided they were.

“Your clone there... that's what is fucking abnormal,” Tallmadge threw back at the two as they left via the left entrance and ascended the stairs.

“You two,” Tallmadge said as Ben saw him turn his attention to the two Rangers at the table while he went over to close the tiny door, shielding the view of the dead agent from anyone else who was in or could walk into the place, “you done yet?”

“Yes, sir,” one of the Rangers stated.

“Get upstairs. We need all hands manning guns. The rebels are really pounding the fort with everything they have,” Tallmadge ordered. “And get the rest of those upstairs guarding this hell hole moving too – we can't spare anyone to keep an eye on the prisoner. He's dosed up enough that he's not going to get far without passing out, so its useless to keep guards here.”

With barely an acknowledgment to the orders, the two left the clothing and materials alone, scampering away. That left Ben a clear view of what else was on the table besides clothing – two pairs of sabres, holster belts, six pistols, and two boot knives. The Walther PPK he had carried was missing. However, he saw his counterpart scrape the keys to the iron shackles off of the corner of the table and approach him. To his surprise, his counterpart knelt down and unshackled the irons around both of his ankles. But with part of his weight no longer being tethered or held partially up by his toes, it transferred to his shoulders and arms. He tried to keep himself standing, but with the pain briefly overwhelming him, he instead, collapsed and hung solely from the irons around his wrists.

Blearily blinking away the haze of pain, he saw Tallmadge dump the keys back onto the table and draw pieces of clothing up. Bringing it back, he tried to resist and draw himself away as best as he could, but could not as his counterpart roughly seized his legs and began dressing him. The scrape of stockings and even breeches over his overly sensitive bare skin nearly caused him to pass out, but he fought to stay awake, fought to use the torturous agony crawling along his legs he felt to keep himself awake. It felt as bad as being shot in the shoulder and gut again, and he seized upon that memory to fight as best as he could.

His efforts were not for naught as he attempted to lash out with his right leg just as Tallmadge leaned in to button up the sides of the breeches and knot the edging. But he was in too much pain to do any significant harm. His counterpart merely stepped back and looked up, venomously glaring at him in silence as Ben's leg was caught by him and quickly finished in dressage. Ben's left leg was also done as quickly and he offered no more resistance, for that effort just to attempt to kick had caused quite a few black spots to appear in his vision.

Vainly attempting to blink them away as he saw his counterpart grab one of the pairs of boots, he decided that dialogue was a better option. Swallowing to get rid of the dryness in his throat before he hissed in pain at the not-so-gentle dressing upon his feet, he tried to say, “What... what are you...doing?”

Tallmadge didn't answer as Ben saw the man step back and run a critical eye over the half-dressed state he was currently in. Then the man turned towards the table and he saw him start to remove his earthen-green jacket, and other accessories, placing them in a messy pile upon one side of the table. The sounds of someone approaching down the stairs to the left didn't even stop Tallmadge from undressing as Major Andre appeared at the entrance.

“They've lit both the eastern and western forests on fire,” Andre stated, glancing over towards Ben before focusing his attention on Tallmadge who had now completely undressed and had taken the second pair of stockings, boots, and breeches and was starting to dress himself in them. “If we have any hope of this plan to succeed, you need to hurry up and get going.”

“Has General Washington or Lieutenant General Washington shown themselves yet?” Tallmadge asked in a curt tone.

“As far as those advanced spyglasses of your Rangers show, not yet,” Andre answered.

“Might I remind you that they're not my Rangers, Major,” Tallmadge said, glancing over towards Ben before looking back down at himself to see how he was dressed in the same half-way manner that he was. “They're Commandant Sheridan's Rangers. And until either Washington arrives at this killing field, we have time.” Tallmadge paused for a moment before stepping up next to him, gesturing towards him, saying, “So, your opinion, Major Andre?”

Andre was silent for a very long moment, but Ben felt a very uneasy feeling bloom in his stomach as he realized that there was a very deliberate method to this dressage and scrutiny he was being subjected to. “Apart from the fact that you left his legs unchained, I would have to say, you and your ancestor are completely mirrored, even down to the scars.”

In response to the fact that Ben's legs were still unchained, even after having his boots back on, Tallmadge immediately knelt down and wrapped the irons around again, snapping it shut. However, as Tallmadge stood back up, Ben's eyes widened slightly as he saw that Andre was not lying – both sets of scars from the stomach wound and shoulder wound he sustained were carved into Tallmadge's own body – right down to the strange healed pucker of skin in his shoulder wound's left most edge. That was when it hit him as to what his counterpart was going to accomplish.

Before he could attempt to speak again, Andre said, “I'll be back once the two generals appear in the field, which I shan't think it long, with all things considered.”

After Andre left, heading up to the surface for a second time, Ben opened his mouth slightly to declare what he knew of their fiendish plan, but stopped himself when he realized that something was not right. There was supposed to be a skeletal false arm and hand on Tallmadge's left arm, but instead of what he remembered seeing last year after that disaster in Philadelphia, the man's left arm was wholly flesh. “Your arm,” he couldn't help but whisper in dread.

“Ah, I see that you haven't been made stupid by that sensitivity serum,” Tallmadge said, bringing the keys over, draping the neck of the bunched shirt over him and unlocking his right arm. “Commandant Sheridan used what she could salvage from Deputy Director Simcoe's laboratory below New York City to grow and graft this flesh and blood arm for me.”

Shoving his arm into the sleeve of the shirt, Ben's right arm was locked again with a snap of the irons before the same was done to his left. Tallmadge again, threw the keys back on the table and snatched up the vest. With the irons loosened but still locked with a pin that had not been twisted into place by the key, his counterpart did the same motions to dress him in the vest before bunching the shirt into his breeches and ensuring that excess material around the shoulders was properly taken in.

As strange as it was being dressed by his counterpart, it didn't escape his notice that Tallmadge had not once taken the keys to fully lock the irons again. But with the heaviness of the chain coupled with his sensitivity and scraping of skin across clothing, he could not find the strength to even lift and try to shake or tear himself loose from the irons. He had to get free; he had to stop his counterpart; he had to prevent Tallmadge in the guise of himself from betraying the Continental Army.

“You can't wholly impersonate me, Tallmadge,” he manage to say as his counterpart dressed himself in a similar manner before bringing the black cravat over and tying it around his neck. He had a half-moment of fear that his counterpart was going to choke him right then and there with the piece of cloth, but that fear passed as the cravat was knotted and Tallmadge stepped back.

“I may not have spent time in your presence, but every time I did, I studied you as you would study and extrapolate your reports from the Culper Ring, Major,” his counterpart stated, giving him a brief, unamused smile before finally picking up the blue-white jacket and coming over. Ben's left arm was unchained first and his arm slipped through as Tallmadge continued to say, “I may not know the details of what you've experienced this year, but I know enough to have confidence in my own ability to carry out my mission.”

“They'll know that you're not me,” Ben said, trying to muster as much confidence as he could as cold reality hit him – Captain Simcoe's presence in Rhode Island was not just a fluke or the British sending reinforcements to try to defend Newport, the man was there for scouting purposes as well. Coupled with Boston, to which he would not be surprised if Major Andre received reports, and then the British attempt to take New Haven – someone on the Long Island side may have been watching from afar. Everything, reported back to British Intelligence and to Director Andre... all for this.

“By then, it'll be too late,” Tallmadge stated, doing the same to his right arm as his left was clipped back in irons. As soon as his right was dressed, Tallmadge pulled the lapels of the jacket forward to have it sit more comfortably and naturally on him so that he could model his own demise. But as the lower portion of the lapel swung forward and backward slightly, Ben thought he felt a slight unusual heaviness draping down the left side of his jacket.

His counterpart stepped back and ran a critical eye up and down before turning and crossing the room to grab the identical jacket. In that moment that Tallmadge had his back turned towards him, Ben gathered what little strength he could muster and swung himself slightly – the left side of his jacket was definitely heavier and he felt a very distinct and heavy thing bump against his chest. There was a gun within the inner jacket pocket, and it was a Walther PPK.

Stilling himself as black spots appeared across his vision, he blinked and saw his counterpart tie his own cravat before putting the jacket on. When his counterpart finally turned around, Ben despaired – it was exactly like looking into a clear mirror and seeing himself standing there. However, that moment did not last as footsteps, this time in a hurry, were heard on the stairs, and a second later, Major Andre appeared from the left entrance again.

“Both General Washington and Lieutenant General Washington have been sighted. North of the fort.”

“North?” Tallmadge asked, this time in a genuinely puzzled tone. “If they smashed us from the south, they would have easily taken the fort and everyone prisoner. What is their plan?”

“Hard to say, but that is now not your concern anymore, Tallmadge,” Andre stated. “They're both here and not scattered as we feared.”

Ben saw his counterpart give a silent nod before snatching the holster belt and tying it around his waist. Three of the six pistols were taken from the table and shoved into the holsters before one of the two sabres was picked up and hooked in the appropriate place. Finally, he saw him take the boot knife and slot it in the usual boot that he himself placed his own knife in – the right boot. Chills crawled down his spine – the methodology in which his counterpart had been exactly as how he usually armed himself – Tallmadge was right in his observations.

“We need to start the evacuation,” Andre stated before gesturing towards Ben. “Shall I strip him?”

“No, get Halleck or someone else to do it. I look like a Continental soldier, Andre. I need you to make sure that our own allies don't shoot at me until I get out of the fort,” Tallmadge stated in a slightly offended tone.

“Well, if I may?” the British officer stated, holding up something that looked familiar to Ben – a needle and syringe of sorts that he remembered being described by name to him when he had been captured in Philadelphia.

“I'll do it,” Tallmadge stated, taking the item from Andre and approached. Ben braced himself for the amplified pain that was about to bloom somewhere upon his body. Though he was not wholly prepared, he was surprised that the needle and syringe was stuck into his right thigh, straight through his clothes, and the contents quickly depressed before the needle and syringe was yanked back out. The apparatus was tossed to the side and a few heartbeats later, Ben felt the strangest of sensations crawling across his body.

Heat, or at least the feeling of heat beating from his heart that spread out like an enveloping warmth, seemingly slowly driving away the pain that wracked his body. However, he was still weak and heard Tallmadge stated, “I suggest giving that serum a few minutes to work, then send Halleck in to strip him. He'll be fully dosed up by then.”

Blinking back the involuntary tears that sprang to his eyes as the strange feeling continued to make its way throughout his body, no doubt being spread by the beating of his heart, for that was where the most acutely strange warmth was emanating from, he heard the two left. As he continued to blink and clear his eyes, he continued to hear the faint thumps of the Gauss cannons and whatever other cannonades that the combined forces of the US and Continental armies were bringing upon the fort. He had to at least try to get free – before whoever Halleck was came back.

Gathering his strength, he briefly closed his eyes and then opened them again. Gritting his teeth, he then swung forward, but to his surprise, the agony that was supposed to sear through his body due to the effects of the drugs he was given never came. Stopping his swinging motion, he frowned: what had Major Andre and Tallmadge injected into him? Surely it could not be the antidote – neither men, especially Andre, was an ally to him. Tallmadge certainly made that clear in his actions towards him.

However, he could not dwell on that thought as he heard the shuffling of footsteps coming down the stairs. One of the soldiers who had been working on the uniforms before being kicked upstairs returned, covered in soot, and flecks of wood and grass, but looking quite relieved to not be upstairs fighting for his life. But Ben was not going to spare the young soldier any sympathy. Just as the soldier took the keys to the irons, approached and reached up to start the undressing process, Ben swung with all of his might and broke his arms free from the loosened chains.

His arms flailed and knocked into the shoulders of the young man as they both toppled over. With the force of his fall, he took the young man down and knocked him out as he himself manage to land a bit painfully on his knees and hands. It seemed that the sensitivity serum had not been completely purged as his body shook from the pain that crawled beneath the strange warmth that was still pulsating across him, but it felt dampened and not as acute.

Reaching back, he loosened the irons around his legs and shook them off – he needed to move fast – he needed to get free and stop Tallmadge from assassinating Washington, for he had no doubt in his mind that that was what his counterpart's goal was in making himself look like him. Scrambling up, he quickly reached the table where his armaments were. The flintlocks were empty, but he was not surprised as he notched the belt around, holstered all three pistols, and took his sabre and boot knife as well. However, instead of unsheathing his sabre, he reached into his inner jacket pocket and withdrew the Walther PPK.

Ten shots – that was all he had left, and he considered it a miracle that no one had discovered it. Ten shots, and he had to make it count in order to get free and stop Benjamin S. Tallmadge from assassinating General George Washington using his name.

~~~

Never had Andre thought that it would come down to this as he ducked behind what used to be a fairly tall coniferous tree but was now just a fort wall high stump. The top of the stump was quite charred, but as he briefly looked around at the sheer chaos that enveloped the fort and its surroundings, he saw his counterpart standing on top of a pile of crates, fearlessly – or recklessly in his opinion – ordering the Britannian soldiers to fire upon an area where a mix of Continental and US Army soldiers had broken through the inner fort walls.

Commandant Sheridan and what was left of her Rangers after that devastating explosion that ripped through the entire fort, taking out a majority of their powder and the Rangers, was further north of where Director Andre was. He could not see where the woman was, but he could clearly hear the slaughter that the vicious and merciless force was inflicting upon the rebels attempting to breach that part of the fort. Even with the whine of the advanced weaponry tearing through the air, along with cannonades pounding the ground from both sides, the guttural screams of the dying were always the loudest.

He was as puzzled as the man whom he had become acquainted with just after the Boston incident, the one who had willingly joined the Sheridan Rangers to save the Continental and US armies from being slaughtered at Haddonfield, Benjamin S. Tallmadge, as to why both Washingtons had decided to invade from the north. His particular source, whom was acquired with the help of Director Andre, within the Continental Army had specifically told them that Lieutenant General Washington was going to invade from the south. By leaving the south open, it gave the combined British-Britannian forces a way out, even if it meant forcing them towards New York City. Their source had spoken falsely.

The clear shots, _bang-bang-bang_ , drew his attention away from the chaos as he saw a flash of Continental blue whirl in and around soldiers. Three immediately fell to the ground in front of the Continental officer who was running as fast as he could through the chaos, pausing momentarily to only shoot at those directly in his way with the smallest of pistols that he had ever seen. It seemed that Major Tallmadge had made good use of the conditions that helped facilitate his escape, and though Andre himself continued to hide behind the stumpy tree, he still dared not step out yet. Not until the officer was clear and gone from the fort. Shots from laser rifles and flintlocks whizzed past the young officer, but Tallmadge was nimble – driven by the injection of sorts that had been stuck into him – and skillfully dodged death. As soon as he saw the young man finally leap onto a horse and ride off, no doubt on his way to stop the other Tallmadge, he relaxed just a hair.

However, he was not of the mind to stay and fight, even though protocol dictated that they would only retreat when General Clinton gave the order to. He had his own plans to tend to, and they did not involve getting killed in this damnable fort. Taking one last look around at the chaos, he hurried back towards the small shed that served as a disguised entrance to the underground area where they had kept two rebel spies and very briefly, Major Tallmadge.

Upon descending the stairs and entering the unnaturally carved area, he saw that near where Tallmadge had been chained was a Ranger who looked to be out cold. Ignoring that for the moment, he headed towards one of the two doors on the wall opposite of where their prisoner had been chained. Opening it, he found that the young woman who had been caught with her brother, spying for the Continental Army, was still tied up and gagged.

Dirty and clothed in a tattered dress with no shoes on, there was a fearful look in her eyes as he stepped up and withdrew the noose around her neck before bodily picking her up. She was light enough that he wasn't too encumbered, but it was not his objective to betray the British by freeing the woman or not reporting the disappearance of Major Tallmadge. Major Tallmadge was the Britannians' problem at the moment – not his. Even though he had wanted to interrogate the officer while they still had him captive, he had long put side his own wants and needs for the greater good – and that was to extricate the British from the damnable alliance they had made in poor choice with the Britannians.

Untying the ropes around the young woman's hands, he ungagged her and pressed a folded piece of paper into her right hand, saying, “Listen to me, miss. Go down these stairs, down the hall, and take the first right that you come to. Go up and at the end, there will be a horse waiting for you. You have a pass in your right hand that will grant you passage into New York. Take it and go back to the city and give this message--” he pulled out another folded message “--to whomever you report to.”

“W-where is my brother?” the young woman softly asked after nodding fearfully and clutched both pieces of paper to her chest.

“Dead, I'm afraid,” he bluntly answered. “But you are still alive and if you do not leave now, I will be forced to kill you myself. I don't want to do that, but I will if I have to.”

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, taking a couple of steps back towards the stairs on the opposite side that would carry her further below.

“Go now,” he repeated as a thunderous boom echoed and shook the entire area they were standing in, sending pebbles of rock and a light dusting of dirt down upon them.

With no other choice other than the condition of freedom he had presented to her, she silently nodded again before turning and running as fast as her bleeding legs could carry her. Andre then went over towards where the unconscious Ranger was and roughly hauled him up by the collar of the man's uniform. It was time to lay the blame of Major Tallmadge and the young woman's escape upon this hapless soldier, and to see if he could persuade General Clinton to call for a temporary retreat southwards.

~~~

Hundreds of curses rattled through his thoughts but only a select few were actually uttered by Caleb as he and Carrie led yet another charge, wrapped in the cold burnished armors that repelled hundreds of blue bolts. As the two of them wrapped the column of heavy cavalry around the left side of the Britannian lines they were trying to break, Winters and Spiers, leading another column of 2nd Light-Legions cavalry crashed into the heavy cavalry of the Britannian forces.

Flashes of metallic blue sabres clashing with each other, lit by fire, reflected by the weak morning sun trying to shine through the clouds and thick smoke, briefly distracted him, but the multiple splashes of bolts against his own armor drew his attention back to his own fight. While he was not entirely used to fighting in such an armor, he knew enough to shut most of what Hart had explained long ago as the HUD, or Heads-Up Display, within his armor, feeding him information through an unnatural voice in his ears, off. All he needed was the protection that the armor afforded, allowing him to plow into Britannian soldiers with barely a scratch or fear of being riddled with bullets.

His shot leg was still throbbing in pain, but he ignored that as he kicked the sides of his robotic horse and swung downwards, dragging the edge of the sabre against the nearest Britannian soldier, slicing the soldier's rifle in half. The soldier stumbled back, as did others as he and the others of this column methodologically pushed them back towards the fort, towards the south.

He glanced towards the still smoking fort, which had looked like it had burned itself out because of the lack of trees that the inferno could have leapt upon, but also because of the brief but torrential downpour of rain just before dawn had cracked over the skies. Fortunately, that rain was not enough to completely douse the east and west forests, though he could see that the fires on either side were also petering out.

“Keep at it! Push them back!” he rallied, as the soldiers continued to step back, as if bunching themselves together would make it harder for the combined forces of the Continental and US Armies to invade. But that was not the goal of their – their commanders wanted the forces to go south, to go into a trap that had been set after Jefferson's Gauss cannon barge forces and the explosion within the fort had initially distracted them.

South was where Laurens and the forces he commanded had carefully placed a bevy of mines, of explosives that were sensitive to the pressure of a fleeing army, and would explode in spectacular fashion once triggered. The mines had been converted from the robotic horses and modified by Jefferson and Sackett. Though half of the US Army was now no longer on horseback, they supported the effort to funnel British and Britannian forces into the laid trap though the center of the armies. Caleb and those of the 2nd Light-Legions still on horseback were sweeping up the northern east and west wings.

“Stragglers on the ridge, Hart!” he heard Adams shout over the interconnected communications line that he still didn't understand how it worked, but allowed them to talk to each other while in their armors and give orders to others within the unit at the same time. “Sweep it up!”

“Sir, sir!” Hart's voice came back, “It's the commander! It's Major Tallmadge!”

“Ben?” Caleb could not help but say as he halted his own advance, briefly letting the stream of horsemen pass him by as they continued to advance. He glanced up towards the high ridge to his right, where the tip of their stretched line of heavy cavalry had not reached and saw a speck of a horseman riding across the rocky outcropping. It was too smoky, but he thought he saw something blue – he would have to trust Hart's words that she, one of the soldiers closer to the end of the line, had seen Ben alive and apparently unharmed enough to ride a horse.

But that relief was short-lived as Hart's voice came back through the internal devices, saying, “Oh shit...oh fuck... oh shit, that's not good!”

“Report, Hart!” Carrie ordered.

“There's... there's two of them, ma'am,” the young enlisted soldier stated after a moment. “There's two... and both of them look the same.”

“Mother of God,” he heard Carrie whisper as the smoke thinned out just for a moment, enough for him to see that there were two riders racing across the rocky ridge – both headed towards the back lines where both Washingtons were. The one further back looked to be taking a shot at the one in the front, and just as the front rider ducked, Caleb saw him turn and attempt to shoot his pursuer. “Adams!” he heard his counterpart shout, “Take over, now!”

“Ma'am!” the officer smartly answered in a calm and controlled tone before he heard a series of orders issue and the cavalry started to reform and press towards the flanks of those enemy soldiers stuck outside of the fort.

“What--” Caleb began before a squeal tore through his ears, causing him to wince before he saw Carrie turn her horse around and charge towards the back of their ranks. Torn between staying and continuing the assault, and riding after her, he then realized what drove her to hand command of the assault over. Two Tallmadge boys spotted, and one of the was most definitely Ben, but the other was Benji... and most likely turned against them. She was going to fulfill the detestable promise that she, Jefferson, and Benji had made all those years ago.

“Don't!” he yelled, immediately turning his horse around and spurred off after her. “Don't do it!”

~~~

Ben could feel his horse's labored breathing as he sat higher than he usually did to keep the pain at bay. While it was not as intense as before, the wind, choking smoke from the burning forests, and heat from the fires still burning this early dawn, whipped at him, providing a much needed physical distraction. However, he was truly focused on his quarry ahead, blue-white jacket flying behind him as he saw him turn around once again and try to shoot him.

Ducking, even though he knew that it would do nothing against a lucky shot, he glanced back as he heard the faint cry of someone falling off of a horse – felled by the bullet that his counterpart had tried to fire at him. There was one more pursuer that had followed him out of the fort, but he only had one more bullet in his Walther PPK. He didn't know what kind of gun his counterpart held in his hand, but the fact that he was able to fire successive and rapid shots at him made him wary. The bullets were not musket balls or laser rifles, and he suspected that his counterpart also had a Walther PPK, but where he had received it was a complete mystery to him.

 _Pew-pew_! Another rapid spit of laser hissed over his head as the other pursuing soldier fired her weapon. Ben gritted his teeth – he had no choice, he could not stop Tallmadge and expect to not fall prey to the pursuing soldier. Even though he wanted to save the final bullet in the Walther for Tallmadge, it seemed that his counterpart had also run out of bullets himself. He would have to stop him through other means.

Keeping the pace fast, even though his horse was slowly faltering, he turned, steadied himself on the horse, took a deep breath as he aimed, and fired. The last of his pursuers slumped forward, dead, and he turned back, urging his horse onwards. Forest branches whipped at him, scratching and tearing at his face, clothes, hands, and hair as he and Tallmadge entered, the hooves of their horses pounding the muddy, leaf-covered ground.

With the fire still raging east of where he was, the smoke in this area was thick, but not thick enough to obscure his view. In the lighter distance, the clearing and bluff that they were approaching, he could see the specks of a loose array of soldiers, backs against them. He tried to shout a warning, but his voice, hoarse from breathing in the smoke, and raw from the after effects of the sensitivity serum still within him, failed him. Desperate, he prayed to God to grant his horse a burst of speed, even though the beast was already starting to foam at the mouth.

Not a moment later, just as both he and his counterpart emerged from the forest and into the clearing, he saw those in the back of the command post, including their commanders, turn. Surprise was etched on many of their faces, but that was quickly obscured by two burnished-armor clad riders charging in from their south and to the right. The two wraiths immediately swung their red-eyed beasts towards Tallmadge, slowing him down, and with one last kick against his horse's flank, Ben finally caught up.

Two strides from running into the warning shots that were peppering the ground, he leapt up to the right and out of his saddle, crashing straight into Tallmadge. The force of his crash into his counterpart unseated him, and together they tumbled to the ground.

Painfully landing on his side, he rolled up and out of the tangle of limbs as he snatched up his sabre – the only weapon he had left. Just as he swept up, righting himself and drawing his sabre at the same time, he came face-to-face with his counterpart, along with a the tip of a sabre pointed straight at his chest. Eyes mirroring his own stared back at him – it was a stalemate and neither of them moved, for to do so, both would skewer each other in a heartbeat.

But Ben didn't care – he had stopped the assassination attempt. Whatever was to happen next, he prayed that God would grant mercy upon his own soul.

* * *

_Springfield_

 

Abe glanced back as the clip-clop of the hooves of his horse slowed to a walk to see that his rather annoying shadow who had been riding about three paces behind him since leaving New Haven, was still hanging near him. “Are you going to keep following me around?”

“Da,” was all his shadow, the really oddly-behaved and quiet Mari Woodhull, stated. When he had first met her, she seemed a bit exhausted and wary, but when she returned after wherever Andrew and Ben had taken her, it was as if she had completely changed into a stiff personality that spoke no English and only he could presume was Russian.

“Okay,” he stated, shrugging slightly before getting off of his horse. He heard her get off her donkey, which didn't look quite real until he realized that it was similar to Robert Rogers' 'horse' that he had briefly seen last year. “So 'da' means... yes?” he guessed as he stopped and gestured for her to join him, since it was obvious that she was not going to let him out of her sight, which included doing his business in the middle of the woods. That had been utterly uncomfortable and embarrassing at first, but he eventually got used to it and had only indicated by hand gestures that he wanted some privacy behind a bush when doing his business.

To his surprise she nodded. “And no?”

“Nyet,” she answered.

He mirthlessly smiled, “I suppose that we are getting somewhere then.” His shadow said nothing in return and didn't even attempt to humor him with a smile of sorts. “All right then. I will have to speak to Arnold alone though, so you can't be in the same room or tent as I'm in when he's here. Otherwise, you'll blow my cover, understand?”

Mari silently nodded in affirmation, to which he could not help but mutter, “At least she understands English.”

However, as the two of them crossed the threshold of what was supposed to be the camp surrounding Springfield, for one of the locals that he had bumped into, in the town, had directed him here, all he saw were empty fire pits, a few broken carts, and scraps of white tent canvas billowing about. One or two chickens were strutting across the ground, but fortunately his confusion was short-lived as the small house that he could only assume served as the headquarters for the camp, was opened.

An old woman bustled out of the house, followed closely by who he could only assume was her husband. “If you're looking for General Scott, he's not here anymore, good sir,” she said, wiping her hands upon her apron.

“No,” he said, absently handing his horse's rein over to Mari as he stepped forward. “My name is Abraham Underhill. I clerk for the Magistrate of New Haven, Connecticut. I heard that General Benedict Arnold was here?”

“Oh, General Arnold hasn't been up here since he was sent down there, sir,” the woman said. “If he's not in New Haven, then I know not where he is.

“Ah, I see,” he answered. “Are there any other officers still here?”

“No, no,” the man answered. “The army moved...westward I think. Heard some of them talking about some town named Poughkeepsie? You'd best not go where they're going, sir and just send a missive. It's already early spring, and I fear that the fighting may start up again, especially if the entire army has moved.”

“Thank you,” he stated. “But I fear that I must bring the news myself.”

“If you are headed in that direction, Mr. Underhill, please do be careful,” the woman said. “And please, though my husband and I do not want to impose on you or your journey, General Scott seems to have forgotten to tell their Reverend that they have moved. If you are headed to Poughkeepsie, might the Reverend travel along with you?

“Uh, sure,” he said, puzzled as he saw the woman return to the house. He could see nothing out of the ordinary from Mari who quietly stood beside him, but then again, he didn't know how she would react if he was being threatened. A few minutes later, the woman came back out, with a man following her – one whom looked quite familiar to him, and one who he thought had died in December of 1777.

“Reverend Tallmadge?” he stated in surprise.

“Abraham. How surprising but good to see you again,” the reverend stated, though his accent threw Abe off – he did not recall the man ever speaking in that accent. However, with innocent civilians present, he did not want to cause a scene, and surprisingly, Mari was making no motion to throw him to the ground, shove him away or any protective detail, which gave him pause. She did not consider the man a threat, but Abe did not know the man, who walked towards him in a manner that really did not settle with his memory of how Reverend Tallmadge walked or approached people. This man was most definitely not Ben's father, but neither was he a threat to him.

“Um, yeah,” he said, extending a hand to shake the reverend's own, wondering how the man knew his name. “I didn't know you now served in the Continental Army as their reverend.”

“The call of God led me here,” was all the man stated. “But these gracious hosts of mine were kind enough to allow me to stay with them, however brief it was. I had not wanted to travel to Poughkeepsie by myself, due to the numerous bandits upon the roads, but perhaps as a small caravan, we will be able to make it safely there.”

“Well, then,” he said, stepping back and gestured towards the horse that he had been riding upon. “Please, take my horse for now, sir. I can go into Springfield and find another one for myself.”

“Thank you,” the man answered, giving him a kind smile that did not reach his eyes.

Abe was not sure if he could trust the man who looked like Reverend Tallmadge, but other than a completely different nature to the man, he had given no reason to be frightened. Perhaps the man was of relation to the Tallmadge family, after all, the future US Army soldier, Benjamin S. Tallmadge looked uncannily like Ben, so it wasn't a stretch to say that this person was related. But he could not fathom why this man had been seemingly 'left behind' – perhaps this man was a scout of sorts, running a different errand for Ben and only missed catching up with the army.

Regardless, the man's words were correct: one did not have to be a Tory or Whig to know that that part of New York was dangerous to travel in and around – the more people in a group traveling into the territory, the safer they would be. He had to put his trust in the lack of protective reaction from Mari and hope that they would catch up to the Continental Army, to Ben – so that he could finally get the truth from him.

* * *

_Fort West Point_

 

Ben blinked as the rays of the sunlight streaming through the cabin shone into his eyes after the sack was lifted off of his head. He shook his head slightly as he tugged on his bonds and the support pole that he had been tied to. Though still sitting, he heard the shuffling of feet and looked up to see a shadow of a person near him and heard the sounds of another shuffling before the pole was bumped and a second body was sat back to back against him. Twisting slightly, he saw that the other prisoner being tied against him was his counterpart, still dressed in the blues of the uniform that defined the 2nd Continental Light Dragoons.

Footsteps stepped back, and he looked up, squinting past the sunlight to see that the one who had sat both of them and secured them to this empty shed that had a thin layer of hay scattered on the hard ground, was one of the Russian Secret Service agents under Lieutenant General Washington's command – Anatoly Volkov. However, before he could open his mouth to say a word, another surprising voice spoke up.

“Fascinating,” Sackett said, drawing both his and his counterpart's attention to the other side of the shed to see the man peering at them. “Simply fascinating. One is our Major Tallmadge, the other is the future-Major, excuse me, General Tallmadge... and yet, both look exactly alike. I'd never thought this would be an issue, considering the loyalty to which both of you have served America... just simply fascinating.”

Unsure as to what to say in the face of such words, fearful that if he said anything, his counterpart would just simply turn and use it against him to prove himself, Ben remained silent. It seemed too, that his counterpart had the same idea, as a very uncomfortable silence fell across all of them. A few minutes later, he saw Volkov step up to Sackett and lean in to whisper something into the man's ear. Sackett nodded as soon as the Russian agent was finished and without another word, the two of them left, latching the door tightly behind them.

“You'll never be able to fully impersonate me, Tallmadge,” he stated after a few moments. “Once they separate and question each of us individually, they'll find the differences between you and I. We may look alike, but we are far different from each other in life experiences.” His counterpart remained silent, but Ben was not taking that silence for an answer as he continued to angrily state, “You promised at Haddonfield that you would take the Sheridan's Rangers away from the war! What happened?”

All that answered him was more silence, followed by a scrape of boots on the hard ground as he heard his counterpart shift slightly where he was sitting. Then, he heard his counterpart softly say, “For what it's worth, I'm sorry it had to come down to this, but it'll all be over soon.”

~~~

“Victory, but at what price?” Washington couldn't help but murmur to himself as he glanced over the latest list that had been given to him by the surgeons. Celebrations all over the camp and even in the half-demolished fort were still going on, but each successive night since their victory and ousting of the British-Britannian forces that had held the fort was getting progressively shorter and quieter. The men were tired and happy, but scores upon scores were still being tended as quick as possible by surgeons from the Continental side and medics from the US Army side.

“We will not be able to take New York the same as we have taken this fort,” the quiet voice of his counterpart murmured as he glanced up to see her perusing the map that had been laid out.

The tent flap rustled and a moment later, his manservant entered. “Sir,” William said, “ma'am, Mr. Sackett says that _they_ have been properly restrained and locked.”

“Thank you William,” he said, nodding as he kept the torrent of emotions triggered from that statement of a particular set of prisoners, from slipping through his calm veneer. “That will be all.”

“Sir,” his manservant said after a moment of hesitation. “General Arnold has asked to see you.”

“Not at the moment, William,” he stated. “Please pass on my regards to him and let him know that I will attend to his request as soon as I am able to.”

“Yes, sir,” William answered and left.

“General Arnold?” Lady Georgia asked in a no-nonsense tone.

“It is a matter of personal consequence,” he answered. “One that I hope to present him with options, along with a possible command of this fort so that he might utilize the necessary resources to resolve his personal matter.”

“You do remember what I told you, do you not, sir?” she bluntly asked.

“Yes,” he said, placing the report down, “but that is not our greatest concern at the moment. I am of the mind to solve this puzzle that is our respective Benjamin Tallmadge – and of what they did.”

“To be honest, sir,” she began, placing the palm of her hands on the table for a moment before standing up straight and clasping her hands behind her back, “I had not expected Director Andre or the Sheridan's Rangers to do something like that. Ever since meeting your Major Tallmadge, it has been a fear of mine that something like this would happen, but I had hoped that it would have never come true.”

Washington was silent for a very long moment before nodding and said, “It too had been a concern of mine as well. The men and women are still in revelry, but there were too many witnesses during that attempt – the rumors will spread, and if we are to save either of them, then we must conduct a drastic measure to preserve their integrity.”

“A court martial, then?” she asked, though it was more of a rhetorical question than an actual one. “Apt, but if it is discovered that one of them has truly been turned, no doubt my Major Tallmadge, then what then? One will continuously impersonate the other and we will never be able to find the truth.”

“How to discover--”

The tent flap rustled again, but instead of his manservant entering, it was Hamilton, who looked a bit out of breath and was tugging at his uniform to smooth it out as best as possible. “Sir, ma'am, I apologize for disturbing both of you, but we caught one of the Sheridan Rangers, alive.”

“Uninjured?” Lady Georgia immediately asked.

“Yes, ma'am,” Hamilton stated. “We were in the midst of processing and separating the prisoners per your orders, sir, and discovered that the Ranger was among those captured by the 2nd Light-Legions--”

“Spit it out man,” Washington said, impatient at just how much his aide was prevaricating to get to the details about their prisoner. “Who is the Ranger?”

“Sir,” Hamilton began, but unexpectedly hesitated for a moment before plunging on, saying, “The Ranger claims to be William Tallmadge.”

He gave a quick glance over towards his counterpart, before refocusing his attention upon his aide, asking, “Who heard him make this declaration?”

“Too many, sir,” Hamilton answered. “We've bound and gagged him, but I fear putting him with the other Britannian prisoners may be an unwise choice.”

“Yes,” he agreed as a thought formed in his mind, “but we may be able to kill two birds with one stone. Let the rumors spread, but put this Ranger in the same shed with Major Tallmadge and his counterpart. Perhaps his actions within will give us a vital clue as to which Benjamin Tallmadge is which.”

“As you wish, Your Excellency.”

As soon as his aide left, he tore off a small strip of paper from the nearest letter and took a quill and dipped the tip into ink. Scratching out the unspoken second part of his thoughts, for there was always a chance that the Britannian mole that his counterpart had deliberately left alive would be listening in. As he wrote his secret words, he quietly asked, “How well do you know of your Major Tallmadge and his family?”

“As I have told you before, Your Excellency, I do know of Commandant Sheridan, but of the others within my Major Tallmadge's family, I do not. I only know that Major Tallmadge's father died in a tragic accident during the Major's schooling at the military academy and that his family generally supported Britannian rule.”

“I see,” he stated, before placing the quill down and slipping the paper over to his counterpart. She didn't pick it up but glanced down and read through the words: [ _I believe that neither will talk until a certain threat is eliminated from the camp._ She _is most likely reporting back to Director Andre of our every move, now that the assassination attempt has failed._ ]

[ _And of the two assassins, they are most likely waiting for an opportune time or for her observations to strike during victory. William Tallmadge to provide the rumor and lure to draw her out, and our respective Majors to be the bait that traps. We will be blind to Director Andre's machinations after this, but I agree that this risk is worth the price._ ]

Washington read over her answer before silently nodding and burned the fragment, letting it drop into a small bowl of ashes before softly saying, “And if we are wrong about them, then God help us all.”

~~~

“They're not letting anyone in there,” Caleb heard Jefferson say as he paused in his approach towards Washington's temporary quarters in the camp that surrounded the partially rebuilt fort. He felt a friendly hand land on his shoulders as he turned back to see both the man and Carrie stop before him. “I tried to get in there myself, but they've got the place buttoned up tight. Won't let anyone except for Billy Lee, Lafayette, Hamilton, and Laurens in. Not even the Volkov or the Sackett siblings are allowed in, though with all things considered, those Ruskies are probably better off guarding from the outside where they can see things, than stay inside.”

“Do you know where they're keeping Ben?” he asked, kicking the ground in frustration, as he saw the hawkish gazes from the Russian agents pierce every person who walked within several paces of the tent. Even the guards standing outside looked quite alert, and Caleb did not blame their alertness at all. He just found it extremely frustrating that Washington was blanket refusing to see or speak with anyone outside of his manservant and aides.

“Nope, but here comes someone that may know,” Jefferson stated as he gestured towards the further away from Washington's tent where the three of them saw Sackett approach and enter a tent. “Come on, maybe the old man has some answers.”

He followed the two and upon entering the tent, he found it extremely empty, with only two long tables stuck end to end with each other and a few weapons laid bare on the table. Two identical-looking sabres, six pistols, two small knives, and two small unusual-looking guns. Sackett was not the only already present when they entered – both Natalie and Andrew were looking closely at the weapons, occasionally picking one up with white-gloved hands and examining it before placing it back down.

“Before you ask, Lieutenants Brewster and Major Jefferson,” Sackett began, opening a small satchel and placing a few items upon the table that looked like it was to mix chemicals with. “Yes, I do know where they are being kept, and no, I will not tell you. And neither will Natalie.”

“He's annoying like that,” Andrew quipped, glancing up at them with a sarcastic smile upon his face.

“Annoying as I may be to you, Agent Strong, I will not have hotheads such as your friends here gallivanting off to go question the two,” Sackett answered in a huffy tone. “At least not until you've all calmed yourselves down.”

“I'm calm,” Caleb said, looking slightly offended that Sackett thought of him in that sense.

The disbelieving look that Sackett threw at not only him, but Jefferson and Carrie as well, was cut short when an unexpected person entered, bearing an arm full of weapons. Being the nearest to the entrance, Caleb hurried over and took the first two weapons, a laser rifle and laser pistol, he could reach from Hamilton, and placed them on a blank spot on the tables. However, he couldn't help but whistle in surprise at the other armaments that Hamilton laid down next to the rifle and pistol.

“Wow, someone was packing a lot of heat,” Carrie quipped, peering over at the display of two rifles, one longer than the other, two pistols, one the usual blocky one that he had seen Natalie and Samantha wield, the other similar in design to the one that the dead Deputy Director Simcoe had carried, five knives of varying sizes that included a long skinning knife, a small belt of five grenades, six cartridges for the rifles, and two for the pistols.

“We captured William Tallmadge,” Hamilton stated.

Silence answered the man's declaration before Jefferson broke it, saying, “Fuck me...”

“Um, pardon?” Hamilton asked, completely puzzled.

“I think he meant, 'wow',” Andrew spoke up in a flat tone, though there was a hint of a jesting nature in his eyes. “But that _would_ be an interesting ship--”

“He is a Sheridan Ranger, correct?” Sackett spoke up, cutting off whatever else the agent-assassin was about to ramble onwards with.

“Yes, Mr. Sackett.”

“How... how the hell did we capture one of them?” Carrie asked, staring at the weapons and then looking at Hamilton in disbelief. “Sir,” she belatedly tacked on after a moment.

“You'll have to ask one of your soldiers. Hart, was her name, I think,” Hamilton answered, “or Lieutenant Adams for the details. But suffice to say, I believe that the short of it was that after the mines started to explode, some of the Rangers turned tail and tried to get away through other means. According to Lieutenant Adams, Hart and those stationed at the far end of the sweep caught him during his attempt to escape.”

“Did we get any other Rangers?” Jefferson ask.

“There are still many more prisoners to process--”

“I'll help with it,” the black man spoke up. “Since Old Man Sackett here won't tell us where Benji is being kept, I'll help with the processing and if we find any other, maybe we can get them to reverse whatever they did to Benji.”

“I'll come as well,” Carrie spoke up before glancing over towards Sackett saying, “Unless you need us to run errands for what you're doing... CSI West Point, if I'm looking at this right?”

“CSI West Point?” Caleb asked, completely flummoxed at what was just stated.

“We,” Sackett said, gesturing to himself, Natalie, and Andrew, “will be taking prints off of the weapons that both Tallmadges have carried, since it seems that neither are talking. But no, I and my associates do not require your assistance, Lieutenant. Go, and perhaps there may be other avenues that can be pursued to disentangle the mess that has been created. I shall have your ancestor here stay and run errands for me.”

“Hand prints?” he couldn't help but ask, marveling at just how strange of a technique Sackett and the others were going to use to try to differentiate between Ben and Ben's descendant. “Can they really do that? Tell differences?”

“We shall see,” was all the answer they received. “We shall pray, and hope it does.”

~~~

The creaking and sudden wrench of the door to the shed woke Ben up from the light doze that he had fallen into. Squinting at the sudden brightness, he heard and faintly saw someone being shoved into the shed and footsteps following the person. Craning his neck to the side, he saw and felt his heart skip a beat as as person who looked eerily similar to his dead brother, Samuel, stumble further in before being shoved to sit on the floor. Rather than wearing clothes that denoted Continental Army, the man was wearing Sheridan Rangers colors, and he realized why the man looked familiar – this was William Tallmadge and the first and last time he had seen the man was at Haddonfield.

Even as his mind was still reeling at the fact that they had captured a Sheridan Ranger, he saw Volkov, the one to have shoved the man in and forcibly sat him down against a support pole and tie him to it, treat the man in a rather unkind manner. “Tallmadge scum, all of you,” the agent spat out before ripping the gag from their newest prisoner's mouth.

“I'll be sure to let your sister know that that's what you think of us when we win the war and I get to bed her, asshole,” he heard the man spit back just as Volkov shut the door to their prison shed tightly. The crassness of his words disgusted Ben, but it seemed that the man was not done yet as he now turned his attention to both him and his counterpart, saying, “You're welcome to partake in the victory celebration, if we ever return to our era, _brother_.”

Ben opened his mouth to answer, but it seemed that his counterpart beat him to it, saying in his voice and accent, “I apologize, but I do hope that if you ever return to your era, you'll be hanged, or executed by what ever methods they use there.”

It was not quite the words that he wanted to say, but surprisingly, Ben found himself agreeing to it. This, plus the apology that his counterpart had stated earlier, the injection that he had received prior to escape, the loosening of the irons around him, even the horseback chase where it now seemed that Tallmadge had deliberately missed shooting him and shot their pursuers...gave him hope that he had not felt for a while, not since waking up in that cell within the fort and finding that his counterpart was mimicking him.

Not only did he now know that his counterpart had not betrayed them, but that this cover of his, acting and behaving just like him, spoke of something deeper. Tallmadge had a mission here, and he, Ben, had interrupted that mission – and his counterpart could not break that cover just yet. Something here, and it wasn't just William Tallmadge's presence in their shed, but something in the camp was preventing his counterpart from revealing himself... but how to go about letting the others know?

“In fact, I believe that hanging would be much too kind of a method to execute you,” he said, knowing that at the moment, there was no method he could use to communicate to anyone else outside of their shed. It seemed that there was a deeper, more personal contention and argument of sorts between Tallmadge and Volkov, than he initially realized back at Monmouth. However, for now, antagonizing their newest prison mate would have to do, for if they could provoke William Tallmadge to do something rash, it would invite opportunity, since it seemed that he could not depend on Volkov to have an objective mind. “Tar and feathering would do you some justice, considering the crass thoughts you have spelled upon Agent Volkov's sister,” he continued to say.

“But it would be much to kind of a method,” his counterpart followed up. “Tar, feather, drawn and quartered would be for the best--”

“Still hiding behind our ancestor, dear brother mine?” William interrupted, looking at both of them, “even after failing to carry out your mission that you yourself proposed? You're a liar and coward. You've always been a coward. You didn't even save your precious Hotel Company--”

“Coward or not, I've at least had the guts to fight for what I believe in!” Ben fired back before his counterpart could say a word.

“You,” Tallmadge followed up with, “you had to go join a despicable group who think themselves above the law, above the governance of man. You're the coward running away from the people you killed. Haddonfield?! That wasn't mercy, that was shooting for sport!”

“Tell me, Benjamin,” William stated, continuing to look back and forth between them, and even though their arguments were heated, Ben knew that both he and his counterpart were of one mind to keep the charade up. “How did you lie your way into convincing mother to carry out this mission? Who is helping you? Who else is the traitor? Tell me, and I'll make your death quick. I'll even tell mother when she comes and decimates this pathetic excuse for an army that it was an accident.”

“Hiding behind mother's petticoats, are we?” Ben taunted, feeling spiteful enough to take a very low jab at the man. “Shouldn't a grown man like you already be weaned--”

“At least I didn't kill father by hiding at that pitiful excuse for a school you call a military academy!” William roared. “You. I don't care which one - you are both to blame because of our idiotic ancestry and what you did. You killed Father, Benjamin. You killed him because you are a selfish coward; always saving your own skin. You alone, let him die!”

Ben clenched his teeth as the man's words hit a little too close to his heart – reminding him of what had happened just outside of Philadelphia on that cold, snowy December day. That day where he made the decision to save others instead of his own father – the day where he became more selfish than the selfless person he wanted to be. The day he saved not only his agents and two strangers, but also the woman he loved because he could not bear the thought of her dying.

“May God have mercy on your soul, William,” he quietly said after a few moments of silence, the heat of the argument suddenly leaving him, as he realized that this was a worthless battle that could not be won by words alone. The two of them would make themselves hoarse before any action would be taken. They would have to go about this in a different fashion.

“Because I already made peace with mine,” his counterpart answered in the same somber tone.

* * *

_Later..._

 

“And, might I ask, if this printing of their hands does not produce the results that will allow us to differentiate between them, what other course of action might be possible?” Washington asked as he saw Nathaniel take a careful sip of his tea before placing the cup and saucer down on the table. The clinking of the pint of coffee against a mug that had been freshly brewed and carried in by his manservant was heard. He heard Lady Georgia murmur her thanks before Billy stepped back and placed the pint back down.

However, the rustle of the entrance to the tent drew their attention from the discussion at hand – of the attempt that Nathaniel, and Agents Sackett and Strong were going to produce by reproducing hand prints from the weapons of both Benjamin Tallmadges and the clothing they wore to hopefully identify which one was which. Volkov's reports to them earlier had produced no viable way to distinguish between the two, since it seemed that which ever was pretending to be Continental Army Major Tallmadge was determined to remain that way.

“I apologize for the interruption sirs and ma'am,” Hamilton said as soon as he entered, though he was not alone – Agent Volkov had also entered. While the Russian agent snapped to with a crisp salute towards Lady Georgia, Hamilton bowed slightly, saying, “Agent Irina Sackett is not in her tent.”

Sackett half-rose from his seat at the table, saying, “She's normally awake during the day and guarding the tent in the daylight hours, correct? Then her objectives have changed? Has she received orders from Director Andre?”

“It is possible,” Volkov stated, his accent quite heavy, but not as heavy as Potemkin's or von Stuben. “I'd advise to stay here for now while we secure the perimeter.”

“Agent Volkov,” Washington began, standing up, “return to your post outside. If our mole has indeed received new orders, we must not tip her off that we know of it.” He turned his attention to his manservant, saying, “William, please inform Colonel Laurens and Marquis de Lafayette of the situation and that I will be attending to their concerns as soon as this is resolved.”

He saw the agent glance over towards Lady Georgia for a moment, who merely had an expectant look upon her face. “Yes, sir,” the agent answered and hurried out, with William following him.

“Colonel Hamilton,” he said as soon as the tent flaps stopped moving, “please stay, for there are other matters than the one at hand, namely the documents and the resources that we will need to prepare to hand over to General Arnold when he takes command of this fort.” He paused and glanced up at his counterpart and at Sackett, before saying, “I would also welcome any advice the two of you may bring to this, so that we may continue to prevent this man's defection.”

~~~

Ben awoke to grunts and gurgles coming from outside of the shed before two soft thumps were heard. Next came the creaking of the door to the shed opening, spilling in the sounds of the spring night, along with moonlight. However, as he looked up to see who had entered, he found himself taken aback to see that it was a woman dressed in a simple colonial-era dark-colored dress. In that moment of recognition that he realized that the woman standing before them was not Natalie, but Natalie's younger sister Irina, a wad of cloth was immediately shoved into his mouth. Faster than he could attempt to spit it out, a piece of cloth was quickly and roughly tied around his face.

He struggled against his bonds; his yells muffled through the piece of cloth just as Irina did the same to his counterpart before quickly descending upon William who was also stirring from the clacking noise that they were making. As soon as she had successfully gagged all three of them, she shut the door behind her, plunging them back into relative darkness. Tiny slivers of moonlight illuminated parts of the shed, but still they did not cease their struggle against their bonds and the poles they were tied to.

Ben could feel his counterpart strongly struggle against his own bonds as well, jarring him as Tallmadge's shaking loosened some dirt and dust from the top of the shed. But his attention was mainly fixed on the shadowy form of Irina, as he saw her move slightly to the center, standing before them before quickly pulling out something small. A moment later, he heard a slight hum before she softly spoke into it, asking a question in a language that he did not understand. A distorted male voice answered the question in what he could only assume was the same foreign language. Even before the voice finished answering, he definitely felt the immensely strong effects of his counterpart pulling at his bonds and at the pole they were tied to. The pole loosened just enough to sway slightly to bump into his back though it felt like a caning. Tallmadge was trying to get free, but the foundations laid in the shed and support poles were much to strong for either of them to loosen as one loosened teeth.

One did not have to know the language which was spoken into and from the device, nor of the continuous tug by all of them to get free, to know what was about to happen. That the order given to Irina was a kill order, and as if to confirm his thought, Ben saw the glint of moonlight reflecting off the wicked-looking blade she had withdrawn from under her dress. He yelled for help though the gag wrapped around him, even though he knew that it was futile to do so. No one could hear them and no one was going to stop the turned agent.

~~~

Caleb snorted, waking up with a start as he heard glass shatter upon the table. He had not meant to fall asleep while monitoring a certain thing for Sackett while the man was tending to other duties, but staring at the mixture in the beaker while it slowly turned colors was boring. Looking up as he blinked the sleepiness away, he heard a man's distorted voice fade in the air with a crackle, but it was the frozen looks of horror from both Andrew and Natalie staring at the tiny object set in the middle of the table that snapped him fully awake. It was the single-point radio that had made the noise.

Natalie had been the one to drop the glass vial, spilling its contents on the table. Not a second after the crackle from the radio faded, both she and Andrew immediately tore out of the tent, with the whines of their weapons powering up fading. Scrambling up from his chair, he too snatched his laser rifle and hurried after them. He was incredibly hard pressed to catch up with the two, as they ran faster than he had ever seen anyone run. Even with the longer strides of Andrew nearly catching up to Natalie who did not seem to be hampered by her dress and petticoat underneath, Caleb knew that something was terribly wrong.

His assumption was proven correct as they dashed through campfires, pitched tents, and celebrating soldiers, headed towards a few sheds and such that had been hastily built to accommodate their prisoners. He saw a blue bolt lance out from Natalie's pistol, hitting the door of the furthest prison shed, where there were two guards who stood, or rather leaned, against it, unmoving. It burst into flames, but the woman was not yet done as she leapt through the burnt door and into the shed.

~~~

Ben twisted his face away and buried it as far down towards his chest as the door suddenly imploded, sending fiery splinters of wood flying everywhere. That explosive noise was swiftly followed by a grunt as he looked up just in time to see someone in a dress tackling Irina in an ungainly manner. Irina and the woman who had plowed into her, slammed into the ground, sliding to the back of the shed. He instinctively ducked again as he saw the glint of metal from Irina's blade fly from her hands. It struck and embedded itself just above both his and his counterpart's heads, wobbling upon the pole.

“Andrew, get them clear!” he heard Natalie shout before another shadow entering the shed briefly blocked the moonlight.

His bonds against the support pole, along with the ones around his hands and feet, were immediately broken with a swift but terrifying application of force from the knife that Andrew had yanked out of the pole. Quickly shaking himself free, he was immediately pushed back and out of the shed by a forceful shove from Andrew. Stumbling, he managed to catch himself before he fell, but his attempt to get back into the shed and help Natalie fight was rebuffed when his counterpart came stumbling out as well.

Not a moment later, William was also thrown out, but Ben saw his descendant immediately jump on his brother, wrestling him to the ground. He saw Tallmadge twist one of William's arms back, keeping him pinned on the ground with a knee to the man's back. Ben hurried over to help, but was too late to ply his weight upon William. The Ranger forcibly wrenched his own arm further than any person would ever bend their own arm. An awful crack and the audible tearing of clothing, skin, muscles, and the like split the piercing howl of rage that issued from the Ranger's lips. Even with his arm nearly torn from his shoulder by deliberate force, William still had the strength to roll away and up, turn and kick Tallmadge in the stomach with his good arm. As if that were not enough, Ben saw him whirl around and clocked Tallmadge soundly in the head with the remains of his bloody and torn arm.

Two steps towards his freedom, Ben finally snapped out of his brief stupor and leapt, tackling the man's legs. He nearly got kicked in the head for his troubles as they tumbled back down to the ground. Stars exploded across his eyes as the flailing good arm of William smacked him in the head. Fortunately, a timely intervention of the butt of a laser rifle to the Ranger's head knocked the man out cold as he disentangled himself and looked up to see Caleb huffing with his rifle raised to strike again. He could hear his counterpart cough and groan in pain, but they were all distracted from their brief victory as the sounds of a tremendous noise of something breaking came from the shed.

Another cascade of cracks and snaps of wood was heard as they saw someone crash through a portion of the shed, flying backwards and landing on the ground. The moonlight, along with the splinters and planks of wood that mostly covered her made it hard to see who it was. However, he saw the portions of the torn dress that still covered her and knew with dread, who it was.

“Natalie!” he hoarsely cried, trying to get up as dizziness swept through him.

“Shite!” he heard Caleb shout as something silver and reflecting the moonlight came flying at them. He saw the thrown knife sink into Caleb's laser rifle, who had brought it up at the last moment. Caleb immediately tossed the rifle to the side where it exploded.

But the fight was not over yet as he saw Irina limp out of the shed, the lower portion of her dark dress torn to pieces. She was also bleeding quite badly from various wounds that covered her body. The turned agent did not even get a few steps towards freedom before Andrew stumbled out. Andrew was shaking his head slightly but was not as addled from the fight as Ben had feared – the man had noticed that Irina was attempting to get away.

The agent-assassin stepped into the woman's path, halting her. Irina raised her fists, taking a stance that looked to be boxing, but not quite – she was determined to escape and would fight to get free. However, to Ben's relief, as he looked beyond where Andrew was standing, he could see the waving of torches and lanterns, signaling reinforcements that were soon to arrive. He hoped that there was still sensibility within the turned agent's mind for he did not want to see blood shed, especially after everything they had all gone through.

“Stop it,” he heard Natalie croak, and glanced over to see her clutching her head for a moment before rolling up from the ground. She stumbled slightly, but did not even bother to shake the slivers of wood that clung onto her. Her pistol was raised and pointed at her, but her aim was shaky. “Please, give up, Irina,” she begged as the sounds of the Continental and US reinforcements got closer and closer. “Don't... don't make me do this.”

Irina said something in what he could only assume was Russian, but her words were cut mid-sentence as a _ptwot!_ sounded through the air. She rocked slightly to the right before toppling over to the ground, with a great amount of blood splashing out from the two holes that had appeared out of nowhere on either side of her head. A warning was just about to emerge from the lips of both Andrew and Natalie, but never got to be said as a familiar voice stated, “I told all of you. You cannot turn them back. Death is the only mercy we may grant them in this life.”

Ben was not the only one to turn to see in utter disbelief, who exactly had arrived. Riding on two robotic donkeys were Julian Alton-Tallmadge and Abe, who was riding double with his descendant Mari. There was a smoking flintlock rifle within Alton-Tallmadge's hands. The man had killed Irina in the most merciless of manners, but Ben found himself too stunned by the coldness of the kill to do anything except gape at them.

It was Abe who broke the silence by immediately scrambling off of his donkey and backing away from Alton-Tallmadge saying, “Who in God's name are you?!”

Alton-Tallmadge did not get a chance to answer that question as hoof beats thundered across the ground before another rider on a robotic horse pulled up and immediately halted, surveying the scene. As if the night could not get any worse, it did as it seemed to Ben that God did not care for their well being at the moment. Of all the people to arrive at this very moment, this very horrific moment, he found himself utterly wishing that this was a nightmare he could wake from.

“What the hell happened?” he heard Samantha whisper in shock.

~~~

“Your Excellency, the threat has been eliminated.”

“Define eliminated,” Washington said, looking up from the last of the orders concerning the distribution of resources within the army and to the fort, he had drafted, to see his manservant standing at the entrance to the tent.

“She... she was killed, sir,” William answered. “She tried to kill all three Tallmadges.”

“I see,” he stated, placing his quill down as he contemplated the immediate repercussions from what had happened. They did not know how long it took to confirm a successful kill order--

“Sir, there's more,” William spoke up, interrupting his thoughts. “Mr. Alton-Tallmadge, along with Mr. Culper, and Agent Woodhull are here, as well as Agent Tallmadge.” Washington remained silent and raised an eyebrow as there was a look upon his manservant's face that told him that William was not yet done. “And sir... this is highly unusual, but there was another prisoner of interest that Colonel Laurens and the Marquis de Lafayette found: Major John Andre.”

“Major Andre?” Sackett asked, eyes wide with disbelief.

“They're keeping him isolated, but Colonel Laurens tells me that the Major is claiming that he is defecting to the Continental side--”

“Defecting?!” he said, nearly shouting the word as he immediately stood up at the same time that Hamilton and Lady Georgia did as well. “I will see him now,” he decided, collecting the documents and placed it into a folio. Handing it over to Hamilton, he said to his aide, “Alexander, please see to it that General Arnold receives this and inform him that it is merely a draft. I shall discuss the contents of this folio with him after I confirm that we do have the Adjutant General of the British Army defecting.”

“Sir, I must protest your going out right now--” Hamilton began, but not before taking the folio into his hands.

“The threat is over, and I shall not be kept in this tent any longer like a maiden on the night before her wedding day,” he gruffly stated. “Nathaniel,” he said, glancing over towards his friend, “if you would please accompany me.” To Lady Georgia, he said, “General Washington, if you would please, attend to the assassin matter. I defer to your expertise with regards to the players in this affair.”

“As you wish, sir,” she answered.

With a more muted but clearly stated acknowledgment from Hamilton, his aide left as well. Collecting the necessary items, Washington left the tent, with William and Nathaniel by his side. “Victory,” he could not help but murmur, “in every sense of the word and more.” With the mole eliminated, he would be able to finally get to the bottom of the problem concerning his Head of Intelligence and counterpart, along with giving Arnold the necessary resources. But the biggest victory to come, if it was true, was that the most unexpected of persons in the war, Britain's own Head of Intelligence, had defected.

Victory was well in hand for him, the Continental and US Armies, and the United States of America.

* * *

_Far and away from Fort West Point..._

 

The horse snorted and whickered in slight displeasure as he tugged on the rein to halt it for a moment. Looking up at the inky night sky that was illuminated by the beautiful spring moon, he breathed in deeply, smelling pine, traces of smoke, and of the crisp clear air that briefly invigorated him. The faint sounds of the Hudson River in the valley below where he was riding was barely heard above the noise of nighttime creatures that roamed the area, but it provided little comfort to him.

He shifted in his saddle for a moment as a brief throb of pain shot up from the healed wound on his leg, as if admonishing him for what he was undertaking. But he would not be deterred. When Washington had rebuffed the last of his advice, refused to even send two resources out of the thousands they had to search for his son, and reasoning before they had attacked the fort, he had made up his mind. His commander, his friend, was too influenced and trusting of the people from the future – especially that white-haired witch. Washington was also too dependent on foreign aid, constantly giving more dangerous and worthy missions to the foreigners, especially to Lafayette, instead of deserving generals such as he and the others.

No, he could no longer serve under a man who had lost his way, and he knew that there were others in the army who felt as he did – Charles Lee, even as traitorous as he was, had exposed a small part of that. But where there were dissent within the ranks of the Continental Army, he was sure that there were quite a few within the British as well. The driving of the British-Britannian forces south during the West Point assault proved that as much. He had seen first hand at just how callous the Britannian forces were towards their British counterparts – using them like shields to cross the minefields. If he could rally both sides to join forces and oust the foreigners and the future-people, then perhaps it would save them all from damning their own souls.

For that, General Benedict Arnold was willing to betray everything he held dear and defect to the British side. It was the only way he knew to save the country he loved.

 

~*~*~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh I am so not done with the parallel of Season 3... There will be one more chapter of Season 3 than actual episodes, so onwards!


	31. Law & Order: Fort West Point (Lite Edition)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IANAL (I am not a lawyer).

**Chapter 31: Law & Order: Fort West Point (Lite Edition)**

 

Abe glanced over at William Lee, Washington's manservant, who had lifted up the flap of the tent and gestured for him to enter, never mind the fact that there were at least four heavily armed, colonial-dressed guards standing next to the entrance. Soldiers and some local civilians were walking to and fro around the camp, not paying too much attention to what was going on here, but he could feel their curious gazes upon him – he, a civilian was being asked to enter the tent where General Washington was. It was unusual, and very irregular, and that in itself made him nervous. Not that being abruptly asked to meet the lauded general himself was already making him nervous.

Upon taking a few steps into the tent, the heavy canvas flap was dropped and he immediately felt like a schoolboy again as he stared at what was before him. Ben and Ben's counterpart were sitting up in their cots, both looking healthier than he had initially seen them cast against the moonlight. His attention was then drawn to Washington, who was sitting in a hard-backed chair, hands folded across his lap, expression closed. There was also another man sitting next to him, sharply dressed in Continental colors, with epaulets denoting the rank of Colonel. At least that's what he thought the rank was – he wasn't too sure of it. The man was taking notes on a small desk situated in front of him, but Abe thought he looked familiar.

“Agent 722, Mr. Samuel Culper,” Washington stated, as Abe refocused his attention back upon the Commander-in-Chief. “Or should I say, Mr. Abraham Woodhull. We finally meet.”

Abe licked his lips, as an abrupt weakness trembled through him before he said, “G-General Washington, sir. The honor is mine.” Sketching a short bow as clasped his suddenly sweaty hands behind him, he couldn't help the stutter that came out due to the mixed emotions of giddiness and nervousness. He was here, he was actually here, face-to-face with the Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Army.

“I thank you for your service to the Army and for the monumental risks that you have undertaken in your endeavors for the Ring,” Washington said, “but I find now that there is a matter that I might request of you, if you feel that you are up to the task.”

Abe colored at the praise that had been heaped upon him, but he managed to snap himself out of his brief fugue to say, “Uh, sir, anything. I am able to undertake whatever you require of me to do.”

Silence filled the air between them as he saw Washington narrow his eyes just slightly enough to wonder if he had spoken wrong or in haste, but then the general glanced over at the man who was taking notes. He did not know or understand the nod that the man shared with Washington, but when the general returned his attention to him, Abe definitely felt a little more frightened than giddy or nervous.

There was an intensity to Washington's gaze, before the general said, “To clear the name of Major Tallmadge here in association with what has happened in the past few days, requires a court martial. Due to the sensitive nature and secrets that have governed many of his actions, and that of the Ring and war, his counselor must be one trustworthy enough to know what secrets can and cannot be revealed during the court martial. However, due to the lack of discreet counselors available for this task within the ranks of the Army, save for Colonel Hamilton here, we find ourselves in need of one. Colonel Hamilton has been assigned as counselor for General Tallmadge--” Washington gestured to Ben's counterpart “--for he too will have to undergo court martial as well to clear his name. It is Colonel Hamilton who suggested that you could provide counsel to Major Tallmadge, after all, I was informed by him that you had studied at King's College, did you not?”

“Yes, yes I did,” Abe answered after a moment, as he focused his attention on the man named Hamilton, and realized that he did indeed recognize the man – at least in passing. His days studying at King's College was spent mostly buried in books or in lectures, for he wanted to be as good of a magistrate as his father had been. Hamilton must have started his legal studies later than he did, for he did not remember the man in any of his lectures, save for perhaps passing him by in the halls.

“But sir,” he said, for though it was a request that he was willing to undertake, but not without full disclosure, for he did not want anything to be misconstrued between him and General Washington, “I must inform you that I never completed my studies. I returned home after the Liberty Pole riot.”

“Neither has Colonel Hamilton,” Washington said, “and many of the counselors that we have here. Patriot counselors are all but nonexistent, Mr. Woodhull. Do you, or do you not feel that you are up to the task of defending this officer of the Continental Army in a court martial?”

Abe swallowed, hard as the nervousness and giddiness abruptly fled from him when he locked eyes with Ben for a brief moment. There was a flicker of hope, but there was also a resigned look within his friend's eyes – Ben would not fault him for not taking up his case to defend him, for both of them, no... every person in the tent knew the underlying question that was being asked by Washington. His name was known to Britannian and British forces as a spy. If he took Ben's case, he would be effectively painting a clear target upon himself, and by extension, upon his family. However, enemy forces did not know that his wife and child were safely hidden away, and that gave him comfort. Ben would not fault him to want to continue to hide in anonymity, given the circumstances.

But he had already chosen his side. He had already made that clear, and even though his father was still in Setauket, perhaps his public declaration in taking the side of the Patriots would galvanize the sleepy town into fighting off their British yolk. There was nothing he could do for his father at the moment except pray that he would be kept safe from repercussions. He looked at Washington again and saw nothing on the commander's face that would give any indication as to what he felt.

“General Washington,” he said, drawing himself up, “I am of able and sound mind to take on Major Benjamin Tallmadge's case, and will defend him to the best of my abilities in the military court of law.”

* * *

_Twelve hours before..._

 

“What the hell happened?!”

Abe felt like he was in a horrifying fog-dream not of his making as he found himself bumping against Samantha's horse in his haste to back far and away from the man who was not Reverend Tallmadge. The moonlight illuminating the scene before him made everything look eerie – Ben and Ben's counterpart, dressed in identical uniforms looked quite pale, with Ben clutching the side of his head; another man on the ground who looked similar to Ben but wearing dark clothing and was out cold; and Caleb standing over the man but with a hand held against Ben to steady him. Andrew was standing a bit ways away, arm clutched across his stomach and was hunched over in pain, as was the other woman who had pointed her blocky pistol at the dead young woman on the ground.

“Dad?!” he heard Samantha whisper in disbelief, as he turned and looked up to see her sliding off the eerie-looking horse. Her attention was not on the sprawl of people before her, but focused straight at the man whom he thought was a fairly pleasant, if not quiet man somehow related to Ben.

At least that was the impression he had while he, Mari, and the man had been traveling down to this fort after leaving Springfield and hearing rumors that Fort West Point was being attacked. The second robotic donkey that the man had rode while he rode double with Mari had been procured from Mari, though she had not stated why she carried a second donkey that was cubed up much like Rogers's robotic horse. However, the swiftness at which they traveled down to this part of New York was incredible and reminded him of just how fast he and the others had crossed the Sound while escaping Long Island last year.

Unfortunately, he did not receive any clarification to Samantha's exclamation of surprise and disbelief as a few curious people of both the Continental and US Armies arrived. However, with their arrival, there was also the forceful order to “Move aside!” coming from behind the crowd, spoken by at least a man and a woman. The people parted, and Abe saw an incredibly short woman with white hair emerge, followed by Lieutenant Carrie Brewster carrying a torch, whom he recognized, along with a black man dressed in the mottled colors and uniform of the US Army, and two people who looked like civilians of sorts.

“No!” he heard the younger of the two civilians cry out, expression etched in pure grief, taking a couple of steps towards the dead young woman.

Before it could escalate, though, Abe heard the white-haired woman state, “Jefferson, crowd control. Get them back. Brewsters-two, get the Tallmadge boys to an isolated tent and send for medics. Anatoly, escort Mr. Alton-Tallmadge and the others to Washington's tent and have irons put on Mr. Alton-Tallmadge. Mikhail, see your sister to the infirmary then report to Washington's tent. Agent Strong, take Irina's body to Captain Horn then report to the infirmary.”

There was a moment of silence between the orders she barked before a chorus of “Yes, ma'ams,” filled the air.

He found himself being tugged by Samantha as he saw a rather hawkish-looking man roughly grab the man who was not Reverend Tallmadge a bit roughly after the man had dismounted from his donkey. The man, Alton-Tallmadge, or whomever he was, brooked no resistance to civilian manhandling him, and walked where he was directed. As Samantha gestured for him to follow the two, Abe glanced back to see the white-haired woman kneel down and gently brush the dead woman's hair aside before Andrew knelt down and picked the dead woman up.

With the crowd being pushed back and scattered by the officer named Jefferson, the walk to Washington's tent was relatively unhindered, though Abe could feel the curious stares, mainly directed at the others, especially at Mari who was leading a horse and two donkeys by their halters towards the tent. However, when they entered, General Washington was not present, and only the remains of mugs and cups of tea and coffee were on the large table in the center of the room. Rolls of maps had been set to the side, and there were a few books, along with a capped inkwell and quill lying on top of sealed reports and blank pieces of parchment.

“Sit,” the man named Anatoly commanded.

Abe obeyed, sitting near the end of the table that was closest to the entrance, though he was grateful that Mari had pulled the donkey that carried a few packs, along with the various documents he had hoped to present to Ben or to General Arnold. However, as soon as he retrieved his documents, Mari immediately collapsed both donkeys and the horse back into their cubes. He could not help but stare in disgust at just how they melted back into those shapes.

“Eh, that was my first reaction as well,” he heard Samantha quip from beside him.

“I'm never going to get used to that,” he couldn't help but mutter.

The tent flap was opened a moment later, drawing their attention to the woman who entered. Another young man entered behind the white-haired woman, and took up a post next to the man named Anatoly, seemingly clamping a rather white-knuckled gripped hand upon Alton-Tallmadge's right shoulder. If the not-Reverend felt any sort of pain or discomfort from such a tight grip upon his shoulder, Abe did not see him display it at all.

“I am Lieutenant General Georgia Washington,” the white-haired woman with the eeriest of red eyes and a severe, no-nonsense look about her, stated without preamble. “Identify yourself, Mister?”

“W-Washington?” Abe stuttered, staring at the woman in disbelief for all of a second before those red eyes of hers made it a little too frightening to look. “G-Geor--”

“Identify yourself,” she interrupted.

“Uh,” he said, swallowing nervously, “Abraham Underhill--” Lady Washington narrowed her eyes, and Abe swallowed some more, knowing that she knew he was lying to her, “--um, apologies, no.” He glanced over towards the two civilians standing over Alton-Tallmadge before looking back at Lady Washington. “Samuel. Samuel Culper.”

It was either a trick of the candlelight in the tent or just his anxiety overpowering his senses momentarily, but he thought he saw a ghost of a smile flit across Lady Washington's face before it returned to sternness.

“Mr. Culper,” Lady Washington stated, “Agent Tallmadge, and Agent Woodhull. What brings you here?”

“Pardon me,” he said, feeling like a disobedient student in the local schoolhouse again, as he realized that there was no hiding the fact that this Lieutenant General knew of him, Mari, and Samantha, “but who are they?”

“My bodyguards,” she stated, “and Mr. Alton-Tallmadge, whom is of no consequence at the moment. Why are you traveling with my agents, Mr. Culper?”

“I was hoping to talk to General Arnold regarding a few personal matters that he left me to resolve in my capacity as a clerk,” he said, tapping the folio that contained all of the documents, including the encrypted letter he had been writing to Ben. “It's urgent.”

He saw the woman glance over towards her bodyguards and even without a verbal order, it seemed that they knew what was requested of them. The two escorted Alton-Tallmadge from the tent. “Unfortunately, General Arnold is busy at the moment with the transfer of command of this fort from the hands of General Washington to him,” Lady Washington said. “You need not stand on formality, Mr. Culper. I know who you really are, and as you have seen, Major Tallmadge is currently incapacitated to receive reports. What is this concerning General Arnold?”

“His eldest son was snatched by unknown persons last year before the start of the Rhode Island battles, and they had been threatening to kill the boy. They sent letters to Arnold's sister, and she had taken every letter Arnold has sent to her, extracted what modicum of information there was about Continental or Congressional details, and passed that on to the captors. They're most likely British.”

“Or Britannian,” he heard Samantha murmur as he pushed the folio over towards Lady Washington. The white-haired woman took a seat at the head of the table and drew out the papers.

“Agent Tallmadge,” Lady Washington stated after looking through the first few in the pile, “Find General Washington at the prisoner processing area and inform him that we may have a problem with regards to General Arnold. Arnold already knew of his missing son.”

“Ma'am,” the agent smartly answered as she got up and dashed out of the tent.

“Arnold already knew that his son was missing?” Abe asked, confused. “But then why...?”

“A most excellent question, Mr. Culper,” she absently answered, her frown getting deeper as she read through the letters, “and one that I hope that we may have the answer to before the light of day.”

* * *

_Meanwhile..._

 

Washington entered the small tent that had been someone's quarters and took the only other seat within the tent. Laurens and Lafayette were standing on either side of Major John Andre while Sackett had taken up to standing in the corner near the entrance of the tent. He studied the Adjutant General for a moment, noting that there was confidence about the man, and that he sat as a noble would, straight, forward, and with a slight air of disdain about him. It reminded him of the many times that his brother had entertained wealthy patrons and the like at their home when he had been growing up. Martha came from that society and she knew how to navigate its politics quite well, and had taught him the finer lessons needed to successfully interact with those from the so-called 'upper crust'.

“Major John Andre,” he said after a moment. “I am General George Washington, and might I just say that this is highly unexpected. I heard a rumor of sorts that you were defecting to the Continental side?”

“It is no rumor, General Washington,” Andre stated. “I wish to pledge my service to the Patriot cause.”

Washington nodded, pressing his lips together for a moment before asking, “And pray, do tell why? Why now, after everything that has happened?”

“Because I wish to no longer be a part of the bloodshed that my counterpart, Director Andre, has planned in the coming months. This mess of integrating British and Britannian forces... it is turning warfare, even Britannian's unorthodox way of fighting, into a slaughterhouse. He turned our losses into reasons to fight in a more brutal fashion – convincing reasons, really. He has nearly every commander in High Command issuing certainty to their troops that in order to win, we must make compromises. To fight not as the natives do, but to fight without giving quarter or mercy. To fight as you had seen us do with the cannonades and Gatlings at Monmouth against your cavalries. Blood will beget blood in greater quantities than what you've perpetuated at West Point, General, and he'll turn this loss into another reason. I cannot abide by that anymore, and so, I am here.”

“And how are you to convince us that _you_ are not Director Andre yourself? After all, we are aware that he is a copy... a 'clone' as the future-people say, of you?” Washington asked after spending a few moments contemplating the man's words.

A rather genial smile appeared on Andre's face as he nodded before saying, “And I expected you to be suspicious, General. The simple explanation is that there is no proof that I can give you. It is as Director Andre told me: he and I are identical, but the environment that we grew up in is not. Allow me this one deviation from my explanation, but it does lend some weight to my story, sir.

“I had not contemplated defection until I met a man named Benjamin S. Tallmadge of the Sheridan's Rangers. I'm assuming he is a descendant of your Head of Intelligence, Major Tallmadge. He was quite rebellious and right away, I could see that he was a captive within the Rangers. He would tell me later that he volunteered to join the Rangers, to save your army from slaughter at Haddonfield – which I must say, explained why our forces were completely overrun when we _had_ the advantage.

“But, I digress. Both Director Andre and I, along with Captain Simcoe and a few other forces that I hand-chose for this task were searching for the Rangers. They found us and made their position clear, but there was a deviousness about this Tallmadge fellow – much more than I had anticipated. He managed to convince both Commandant Sheridan and Director Andre of a plan to assassinate you, using his likeness with Major Tallmadge as the deception and lure to get close.”

Washington could feel a deep frown tug at the edges of his lips as he glanced over at Sackett before briefly focusing his gaze upon Laurens and Lafayette. Neither Sackett nor Lafayette had been at his side when the apparent assassination attempt by Tallmadge had happened. Laurens had been, but thanks to the efforts of Major Jefferson and both Lieutenant Brewsters, both Tallmadges had been stopped.

Andre continued, saying, “I do not know how this Tallmadge fellow did it, but he had Director Andre and Commandant Sheridan utterly convinced. Even I was convinced...if only for a while. I know not who trained him, but he is as shrewd as the Director himself, and know this General, I do not praise anyone lightly. He managed to intercept my encrypted messages to Deputy Director Simcoe in New Haven, whom I had been working with to see if an alternative to the bloodshed in the name of this British-Britannian alliance could be worked. I had managed to convince Director Andre to pull Captain Simcoe out of New Haven and send him to Rhode Island, replacing him with Deputy Director Simcoe to continue to charade. Though it was more to settle the monetary mess that Captain Simcoe had made of with General Arnold's family than anything else. The Deputy Director and I assumed that you would be keeping a very close eye on General Arnold and thus did not find him an appealing target for turncoat or defection to the British side. Director Andre thought otherwise, and I could not dissuade him from that path.

“After Tallmadge intercepted and decrypted my messages, we started to pool resources together. It was more of a mutual agreement to separate the eras than to determine which side would win the war. He told me of a technique that could possibly identify which person was which, through hand printing and comparison of finger prints if it ever came to ensure which one of us died – either me, or Director Andre, should either of us be killed. Since we are identical in blood and birth, the nature of how we grew up is the only difference, and he stated that it shaped our hand and finger prints. I find it a marvel myself, but it is knowledge from the future said with conviction.

“Thus, a few days before you attacked, I took hand and finger prints of both myself and of Director Andre, though I must say that the Director was not in a clear state to remember what I had done. He has become... touched in the head lately. I freed one of your agents, a Miss Leigh Hattersfield, if I remember her name correctly, and sent her back down to the city with the prints. And with the hope that whatever was left of the Ring you've established within the city would keep it safe. I did not keep it on me, for the fear of being shot and that my blood would spill over the identification marker.”

“You captured two spies?” Washington asked, weaving his fingers together. The body of James Hattersfield, one of the Philadelphia Culper agents who had been transferred to New York City, had been found in the aftermath of the battle – neck stretched.

“The Rangers did,” Andre stated. “Tallmadge identified the young woman and her brother, but neither of us wanted their deaths. The young man was forced to go back to New York City to retrieve a uniform that matched Major Tallmadge's colors so that Tallmadge's plan would succeed. It was an unfortunate consequence of Major Tallmadge's capture and questioning by Director Andre that James Hattersfield was hung in an attempt to make the Major speak.”

“And yet, I am still not fully convinced that there is truth to your words,” he said, narrowing his eyes slightly. “What you say about the assassination attempt it true, but the intent behind it was real. Tell me, how are you so sure that you were not led astray by Tallmadge, who was trained by his military to be an intelligence officer of the highest calibre?”

“Because the gun that he carried, not the flintlocks that he used as part of his deception, only has eleven bullets, sir. I heard that it is called a Walther PPK, but only ten of those bullets are actual bullets. The eleventh bullet is not a bullet but a serum of sorts... something that Tallmadge stole from Commandant Sheridan. Something, if modified correctly by people from the US Army, can kill Director Andre.”

Washington sat in stunned silence, too absorbed at what was said to notice that Sackett, Laurens, and Lafayette were also staring at Andre in surprise. They were interrupted though, by the rapid footsteps before guards outside halted the person running to the tent. “General Washington, I've an urgent message from Lieutenant General Washington.”

Shaken out of his reverie, he recognized the voice belonging to Agent Samantha Tallmadge, whom he recalled his manservant stating that she too had arrived earlier. Giving Sackett a nod, murmured, “If you would please, excuse me for a moment.”

Exiting the tent, he didn't even get to close the flap before the young woman began without preamble, saying, “Sir, Culper has brought intelligence on New Haven. Verifiable intelligence that supports the claims made by New Haven--”

“Your Excellency!” Hamilton's voice interrupted whatever else Agent Tallmadge was going to say as he saw his aide push through the crowds, still carrying the draft packet of his orders and requisitions to Arnold. “Your Excellency,” his aide said in a lower tone to try to not draw anymore attention than necessary. “He's missing. General Arnold. He's not here, and all we found was his jacket in his tent. No one knows where he went...”

Whatever else Hamilton was saying seemed so far away, as he felt himself blink at the sudden weakness that overtook him for a brief moment. Gone... missing, Arnold was missing, and with dread, Washington knew what had happened. “Failed,” he whispered more to himself than to anyone else as he heard the faraway call of both Agent Tallmadge, his bodyguards, and Hamilton repeating his name. “I...failed...”

“Sir!” Hamilton's forceful tone, and the fact that Washington suddenly felt a firm grip around his arm, brought him back to the present. He turned his head slightly to see his aide holding him up and nodded – he was recovered from his fugue.

Hamilton held on for a moment longer than necessary, but as soon as his aide let him go and took a careful step back, he said, “Alexander, have John and Lafayette take our defector in a more secured place and allow him to rest for a while. Nathaniel is to retrieve the two guns that our defector has identified and bring it to me.”

“Yes sir,” Hamilton stated.

Turning his attention to Agent Tallmadge, he asked, “Agent Tallmadge, our defector stated that he sent one of our agents down to you and that she was bearing a certain document that needed to be kept safe. Have you made contact with that agent?”

“Yes,” she answered, “I did. She told me everything that had happened to her and her brother. Under the circumstances, I do not fault her for what she and her brother have done, but she has stated that she has not told her captors about our people in the city. As a precaution though, 723 has moved to another location and is laying low.”

“Where is that document?” he asked, moving to the side as Laurens and Lafayette exited the cramped tent, escorting Andre with them to a more secured location. Sackett was the next to emerge before Hamilton followed. As soon as the tent was emptied, Washington stepped back into it and the young agent followed.

“I have it with me, sir,” she stated, reaching into a small pouch that she carried around her waist belt that was tied around her dress. “I took it with me as a precaution in the event that Hattersfield and 723 were discovered while I was gone from the city.” She paused for a moment as she pulled out the folded document before handing it over, “Sir, pardon my presumption, but if this is what I think it is... an identification marker, then is Major Andre truly defecting?”

“Until we can discern otherwise, we must proceed with caution,” he murmured, opening the document up to see two large hand prints done in what he could only assume a mixture of gunpowder and ink, along with twenty individual prints of fingers. “Agent, please inform General Washington that I will be seeking out my Head of Intelligence and his counterpart and wish for her to be present. There are many things that need to be clarified, including Arnold's defection and this defection of British Adjutant General, Major John Andre. I believe that most of those answers lies within whatever cabal Major Tallmadge's counterpart has brewed.”

“Yes, sir, but what of Culper, sir? It is dangerous for him to be here.”

“I shall interview him further after I get some answers. For now, find Lieutenant Carrie Brewster and have her escort him to a safer area than this part of the camp.”

* * *

_The next day..._

 

“Do you, or do you not feel that you are up to the task of defending this officer of the Continental Army in a court martial?”

“General Washington,” Abe said, drawing himself up, “I am of able and sound mind to take on Major Benjamin Tallmadge's case, and will defend him to the best of my abilities in the military court of law.”

“Excellent,” Washington stated before glancing over at Hamilton, and said, “Colonel Hamilton, if you would please, brief the room on what we know thus far with regards to this incident so that we may have a clear sight of what lies ahead.”

“Yes, sir,” the officer answered before standing up and taking a few sheets of parchment with him. Abe remained where he was, with all feelings of nervousness no longer gripping him – Ben's life and career within the Continental Army, and by extension, the existence of the Culper Ring and everything they had done thus far was on the line. He would need to do his damnest to defend his friend and to make sure that no secrets that need not be said, even his own aliases, got out during the court-martial.

“Due to the witnesses that have seen General Tallmadge approach in an apparent attempt to possibly kill or injure both General Washington and Lieutenant General Washington, but was thwarted by Major Tallmadge with help from Lieutenants Brewster and Major Jefferson, the court-martial held for Major Tallmadge will primarily focus on separating the facts of the incident. The court-martial held for General Tallmadge will focus on the intent derived from the incident.

“It has already been determined that General Tallmadge utilized the likeness of him to Major Tallmadge in order to deceive the enemy and bring vital information and resources back that could help us win this war. The intent behind the method of escaping back to friendly lines is questionable. To reveal that we have a weapon that could kill possibly kill Director Andre in front of the court and persons attending will be detrimental to the secrecy that we must establish, due to the soon-to-be public nature and declaration of Major John Andre's defection.

“Since 'capture', General Tallmadge had maintained his cover posing as Major Tallmadge, due to the presence of several prisoners that we have, until an assassination attempt by orders relayed through to one of Director Andre's agents in the camp, happened. This order was heard by Agents Strong and Sackett through the single-point radio recovered in New Haven, under your auspices no less, Mr. Woodhull. This also must be kept secret. The assassin was killed by Russian Secret Police commander Julian Alton-Tallmadge, but we can firmly establish that from the attempt, Director Andre had been truly convinced that General Tallmadge was to assassinate either General or Lieutenant General Washington – that failure necessitated him to deploy an agent to get rid of the evidence. The establishment of both General and Major Tallmadge's innocence in any wrongdoing with regards to the assassination attempt is needed to convince the court for a full acquittal from the charges, which are as follows:

“Conspiracy to assassinate and defection to enemy ranks, which incidentally, does include your willingness to join the Sheridan's Rangers, General Tallmadge. Even if it was to prevent the Rangers from their wholesale killing at Haddonfield, I'm afraid that is the one solid piece of evidence against you that we cannot argue. However, if the court does not charge both of you on those two accounts and allow us to defend on those accounts, even if acquitted with lesser charges--”

“Both of us can effectively kiss our military careers goodbye,” Abe heard Ben's counterpart speak up. “And if either of us are charged and convicted on the two higher accounts, the other will never be trusted by anyone ever again. It would also completely destroy the Continental-US Army alliance--” Abe saw him flick his eyes over towards Washington, “--and remove you from command.”

An incredibly uncomfortable silence descended upon those in the tent for a few long minutes before Washington quietly stated, “Lieutenant General Washington and I will be recusing ourselves from the panel and from any further discussion of this until a decision is reached.” He rose from his seat and Abe stepped to the side to allow the general through. Pausing at the entrance to the tent, Abe saw him turn slightly back, saying, “The court will convene in five days, gentlemen.”

“Sir,” Abe spoke up before Washington could step out, for as dire as this was, there was one thing he needed to know from his original purpose in traveling here. “What of General Arnold? I heard rumors this morning that he's left camp without his uniform jacket and is missing? Had I know that he knew of his son's disappearance--”

“It is not your fault for the delay in relaying the information, Agent 722,” Washington said, but did not fully turn around. “His defection to the British side is my fault, and mine alone.”

Without another word Washington swept out and Abe could not help but stare at the flapping tent entrance. It felt like the weight of the world was on his shoulders once again, but this time, the task seemed impossible to surmount. Turning back towards Hamilton, he glanced at both Ben and Ben's counterpart – even with the clear establishment that they were their own selves again, now that they were safe, both of them had the same expression: that of absolute conviction.

Pushing aside all thoughts of General Arnold and of their failure to stop him from defecting as 'history' said that he would, he squared his shoulders and picked up the first book on Hamilton's small desk. “Five days,” he murmured, as he flipped through the first few pages of the law book. He had five days to understand how a court-martial was conducted and also establish a solid defense for Ben and by extension, Ben's counterpart and the Ring. If he couldn't... well he didn't want to think of the consequences that stemmed from failure.

* * *

“Lieutenant.”

“Yeah, Mr. Sackett?” Caleb asked, looking up from fiddling with the blunderbuss that had a spring-loaded bayonet at the end of it.

“If you would be so kind as to help me carry this to Major Andre's tent,” he heard and saw Sackett gesture to the large, shallow, rectangular tray that looked like a cross between a burlap sand sifter and something that could hold clams or oysters. There were two glass bottles, one liquid black, the other a light, grain-like substance, in the man's hands.

“Sure,” he said, pushing the bayonet back into its place before holstering the blunderbuss. He picked up the tray and glanced down towards the end of the large tent where Julian Alton-Tallmadge sat next to some vials and the like, carefully working on whatever he was working on. There were irons around his wrists and shacked around his feet as well, but it seemed not to hinder whatever he was doing.

Andrew was sitting next to him, for he was the only one out of all of them who was able to tolerate the despicable act that the man had done – killing a woman who was about to surrender in cold blood – and sit and guard the man. He shook his head slightly as he followed Sackett out of the tent, still in disbelief that they needed someone like him for something so important. Never mind the fact that they possibly had a way to actually kill, permanently kill, Director Andre.

Alton-Tallmadge was still needed and was not swinging from a branch only because he had the ability to modify the serum that Benji had smuggled back through an identical Walther PPK, encased in a bullet. Now, the man was doing some manipulations with tiny portions of the serum that looked partially like magic, though Sackett had stated that it was more chemical manipulation than anything else – things that Sackett's wife often did to create medicines for her apothecary.

However, that was not the most frightening of things that Caleb had learned, not that Arnold's apparent defection was already frightening – the perimeter had been greatly expanded. What he had learned about the serum was that it had been created strictly to slowly destroy Washington, on a cellular level. What 'cellular' meant to him was confusing, but the explanation that Samantha had provided before she had stalked out of the tent in anger, had been simple enough to understand. The serum was similar to a slow-acting poison that would eventually kill whichever Washington it would have been fired into. The bullet could be fished out and Washington saved, but the serum would have already been delivered into the body upon impact. The serum was mean to dissolve Washington, and Caleb could not even imagine what that would look like – and he didn't want to.

Now, Alton-Tallmadge was manipulating that serum to not kill Washington, but Director Andre. That gave Caleb hope, though he knew that further down the line, how they were going to deliver that serum into the Director was another mission to be planned. And he hoped that both Ben and Benji came out of their court-martial unscathed and acquitted of all charges. But as much as he was worried about Ben and by extension, Ben's counterpart, especially since Carrie had been wringing her hands enough that both she and Jefferson had been ordered by Lieutenant General Washington to patrol the perimeter, he also felt a great amount of concern for the Sacketts. He had not seen Natalie since she was taken to the medical tents by her young brother, but neither had he seen Mikhail Sackett standing guard in front of Lady Washington's tent since that night. Sackett himself seemed preoccupied, but Caleb had seen him take occasional glances at Alton-Tallmadge.

“Um, hey,” he said, seeing that now was a good time as any since they were not in the tent with Alton-Tallmadge anymore. “Mr. Sackett, are you all right?”

He could hear a huff of annoyance from Sackett as the man stated, “Whatever do you mean, Lieutenant Brewster? I am not ill, nor am I infirmed. In fact, the quick ride up here was the most uncomfortable thing that I had ever done in a while, never mind that I now have to send for my wife and children as well, since it seems that our guest there requires training on how to use 18th century tools.”

“Um, I mean, with that Alton-Tallmadge fellow,” he stated, frowning slightly. “What he did to, uh, Irina Sackett and all...”

“It was no less of a fate than what was in store for Peter Sackett,” Sackett answered. “As much as I hate to see descendants of mine killed, I have to admit that Alton-Tallmadge did have a point with his words. We've tried our best to return Peter Sackett to normalcy, but it... it was not working. At least it was not working with what medicines we have here in this era.”

“I don't know,” he couldn't help but say, “but can't we force Alton-Tallmadge to make a cure of sorts? At least for Natalie and Mikhail's sake? You know, give them some comfort that their mother might return to them?”

“Believe me we tried,” he heard Sackett mutter in a dark tone. “Short of outright torturing the man or God forbid, engaging in behavior that would involve mutilating him as the British are wont to do with our men as their prisoners, we cannot force him. We'd be no better than the masters that we're attempting to gain freedom from. However, we can at least be grateful that he is willing to modify that serum.”

“How's Natalie? How's her brother?”

“I believe that you may be able to ask after her health yourself, Lieutenant,” Sackett said, gesturing with a thrust of his chin out towards the side of the tent they were approaching.

Caleb saw Natalie, Samantha, and Carrie standing at the side, while two guards, one US Army, the other Continental, stood outside the entrance to the tent. However, despite the somberness that he saw upon the three women's faces as they quietly talked amongst themselves, he couldn't help but smirk slightly as he saw the Continental guard peer over at them every few moments. It was the same kind of look he had seen many times around the camp from soldiers who found some of the women working in the camp attractive. There was no doubt in his mind that the Continental soldier was definitely finding all three, or at least Natalie and Samantha, both of whom were wearing dresses, attractive.

That also meant that the guard was not paying attention to his duties, but his thoughts were diverted from the observations as he saw the three of them break their circle up as he and Sackett approached. “Hand printing time?” Samantha asked, sounding and looking a lot more cheerful than she initially had been.

“Yep,” he said, just as Carrie drew back the tent and gestured for the two of them to enter before shutting the flap close. Inside, he placed the tray down on the table as he saw young Mikhail approach from where he had been standing, in the far corner of the tent, watching over Andre who had sat up in the cot. There were a few sketches of people that he saw upon the table, and he took them up, looking at the first drawing curiously.

“Ah, verification of the prints that I've handed over, I presume?”

“Yes,” Sackett answered, busying himself by giving the grain-like substance a shake before pouring it carefully and evenly over the tray. Caleb stood to the side, continuing to flip through the sketches, marveling at the detail in which Andre had drawn even the small campfire that he could see from his tent.

“Might I presume to have your name, sir?” Andre politely asked.

“Nathaniel Sackett,” Sackett answered, taking a quick glance back before gesturing with the empty grain bottle towards him, saying, “and that's Lieutenant Caleb Brewster.”

“Ah Brewster,” the officer answered, momentarily drawing Caleb's attention away from the sketches. “I heard of you from Director Andre and about you from Captain Simcoe. Quite the daring soldier, aren't you?”

“Yeah,” he gruffly answered, giving Andre a thin smile. “Nice sketches,” he said after a moment, waving the pieces of parchment in the air while he saw out of the corner of his eyes, Sackett uncorking the black liquid and gently pouring it over the grain until it filled the tray – looking much more like a sticky tar-like substance than anything else. “You thinking about drawing some fortifications of this place?”

“No,” Andre answered, and to Caleb's disappointment, the man didn't even look offended by the implied accusation. “I sketch because I know that if and when we separate the eras, whatever future is created, those who write history will never include this madness. I wish to preserve that memory, if only for myself and no other.”

“Oh,” he answered, realizing that the man had a very good point. If they ever separated the tangled eras, would he remember what happened? Would any of them? He didn't know. Though for just that one moment, he wished that it would never happen, for he knew that he would greatly miss the company of the friends he had made with the future-people – especially his descendant, Carrie.

* * *

_Three days later, New York City_

 

“Major Andre isn't home,” Arnold heard the servant say as General Clinton and the two soldiers immediately behind the man pushed into the modest-looking house, followed by him. Two more soldiers followed him in, and it seemed that Clinton knew where he was going as he headed down the hall and into a sitting room.

“We are aware,” Clinton dismissively stated to the servant before focusing his attention on Arnold, saying, “This place is as good as any for your lodgings, until we've determined what's to be done with you.”

“I don't require any comfort sir,” he stated as he looked around the room and found it quite spacious and neatly kept, much to his liking. “Only the opportunity to be of service.” He paused and turned back towards Clinton, saying, “As soon as I am provided uniform and regiment, I shall deliver upon my promise. May I inquire as to my new rank?”

“No, you may not,” Clinton stated, glancing up from the desk he had settled his eyes upon, eyes sharp with distaste.

“Sir,” the servant asked, “will Major Andre be returning home soon?”

“Major Andre has defected to the enemy. Efforts are underway to capture and secure his return so that he may be tried and hanged as a traitor before he can give up too much information to them.”

“Allow me to lead this effort sir,” Arnold spoke up, eager to prove himself. “Washington's army is vulnerable after all they had expended to capture West Point. I know where they're vulnerable. I can redraw the fortifications--”

“It's likely that he's been moved by now and the defenses strengthened in the wake of your own defection.” Clinton stated before returning his attention to the heartily burning fire in the fireplace. “You shall wait until we've determined what's to be done with you.”

“Then,” Arnold said, drawing himself up to his full height, “may I inquire to the location of my son? I know that it was elements of your forces or Andre's forces that had taken him from his home. I've given you the numbers that I know of, the movements, and the locations of several camps, and yet you still have not released him. Where is my son?”

“Safe,” a voice spoke up from the adjoining entrance between the sitting room and dining room. Arnold turned around, but Clinton remained where he was, only flicking a glance up to acknowledge the entrance of the man. “Your son is safe.”

“Who the devil are you?” Arnold asked, taking a step back for the man wore clothing that was definitely not of this era, though there were bandages wrapped around his head and hands, with some spots of blood still bleeding through the bandages, suggesting that the man had seen recent combat.

“Britannian Ministry of Intelligence, Section 6, Director John Andre,” the man stated but did not extend a hand out to shake. “Your efforts to provide us with details of certain vulnerable areas were much appreciated, but you never did provide us the detail we wanted – that is, the number and exact location of where both Lieutenant General and General Washington were. But we had much success with the other details you've provided... except for West Point. You said that Washington's plan was to surround the fort, not leave the south open.”

“That _was_ the plan,” he snarled, incensed that this man, who didn't even have the look of a military bearing upon him, was outright accusing him. He glanced over at Clinton, but it seemed that the general was content on letting this civilian of all people, question him. “General Clinton,” he said, glaring at Director Andre, “are you to stand for this civilian, this man who should not even be a part of this discussion, questioning me?”

“This civilian,” Clinton stated, finally glancing up from the fireplace, “as you so derisively put it, is a descendant of Major John Andre, whom he tells me that historically, should have been captured and executed as a spy at West Point, not defected. Director Andre has studied his predecessor's tactics and ways, and is a member of the Britannian High Command staff. Had the Continentals and US Armies surrounded us, we would have been granted victory in that battle. Instead, you gave us false information, and that led to the slaughter of hundreds, if not thousands of men and many more captured and in Continental hands. They now have enough of our officers to force us to trade for their men. Right down to the lowliest of them.”

Clinton raised an arm to the mantel shelf and rested it there, tapping the board for a moment before saying, “My hands are tied in this, and because we do not trade defectors since it discourages more, we are now left with a conundrum of what we shall do with you.”

“Allow me to serve,” Arnold said, turning his full attention to Clinton. If this Director Andre was the architect of the British-Britannian alliance, then he would have to be careful with his words. “You need not keep my son hostage any longer. I came here willingly, and I know Washington – how he thinks, how he acts. Let me serve, and I shall give you victory!”

“We shall consider your words,” Clinton stated after a few moments of silence, still tapping the shelf. The general then looked over towards Director Andre and said, “Have your man release the boy and return him home to his family. We need not dirty our hands any longer with this hostage business.”

“Thank you,” Arnold stiffly answered.

* * *

_Fort West Point_

 

“You have a remarkable eye for sketching,” Washington murmured as he glanced through the various pages that Andre had done thus far. The likeness in which he had drawn soldiers that he had observed from within his tent, and even a few of those who guarded him, including Agent Sackett and young Russian Secret Service agent Mikhail Sackett, was quite accurate. There was even a self-portrait within the sketches.

“Ah, I acquired such skills when I was taken prisoner not long after I arrived here – during the battle of Fort Saint-Jean. I took it upon myself to write down numbers, fortifications, and even drew a detailed map of the place,” Andre answered.

“If I may presume, with the information you passed on, that the result was that General Gates appointed you to Adjutant General?” he asked, placing the sketches down.

“Yes,” the man answered with a genial smile. “But if you pardon my presumption as well, General, that you have not come here to engage in pleasantries. Is there any information that I can provide for you?”

“General Arnold,” he began, pushing the sketches to the side, “has defected. He had been under considerable personal pressure faced by debtors brought on by one of your agents, a Captain John Graves Simcoe. Simcoe, in disguise was apparently in New Haven and forced Miss Hannah Arnold to purchase land in her brother's name after there was an apparent success in turning the fortunes around for the apothecary that they owned. My question is not about what Simcoe has done, but rather what happened to Arnold's son after that initial turn in fortune. It is apparent that both Miss Arnold and General Arnold knew that General Arnold's eldest son was missing, but neither had told the other. What was the purpose of this misinformation? I can only presume that Arnold had been sending his son's captors information about what Continental forces and their numbers he knew about. Why engage Miss Arnold in this deception?”

“Verification of numbers,” Andre stated after a moment, briefly tapping the table they were sitting at before bringing his hand to his chin to stroke it. “I only knew of Miss Arnold's involvement with the numbers and I was comparing her report to what came across my desk. I always ensured that no harm came to the boy, especially when locks of the boy's hair were sent to his aunt so that she could continue her espionage for the British.

“Please, believe me when I say that Director Andre had only informed me that he was getting information about troop numbers and locations from a source buried within the army. I thought it was one of his agents, not General Arnold. We both knew that you would be watching him carefully, and I thought my counterpart would not have engaged Arnold in that kind of manner.”

“I see,” he answered, keeping his frustration in check.

Ever since Arnold had brought good news of his apothecary to him, Washington's suspicions not about his friend, but the underlying motive behind the sudden turn in fortune had been high. It was also why he had ensured that Arnold was stationed at Springfield for the remainder of the winter, save for the response to the attack in New Haven. It was also the reason why he and Lady Washington had decided to sow the grounds south of Fort West Point with mines instead of directly attacking. He had rather risk the British and Britannian forces escaping than springing a trap that the enemy forces could have potentially planted using information that was cross-verified from their sources. Which was now proven to be not only the dead Russian agent, Irina Sackett, but also from Arnold, and Arnold's sister.

“I was opposed to engaging civilians in this matter, General,” Andre said after a moment. “But the more I fought against it, the less British High Command seemed to listen to me. I suppose that after I pushed for certain actions at Monmouth and again at Haddonfield, my own reputation was destroyed as well with the defeat... especially with the initial desertion of our allied forces, the Sheridan Rangers.”

“So you thought to apply your acumen in defeating Britannian forces with us?”

“Yes,” the intelligence officer answered, “if you would have me. I can also propose another way to defeat Director Andre is to let me live – beyond the time I was supposed to die in this 'history' as was explained to me. I may marry, produce heirs, and destroy what 'history' has done to create such a man. Or, if you prefer, though I personally don't, kill me and burn my body. Before incursions by Britannian or British forces are made in an effort to capture me.”

Washington folded his hands as he stared at the officer for a long moment. “You shall wait until we determine what is to be done with you, sir. Your intelligence thus far has been verified against evidence that was brought to light, but as for your actions and what you may bring to the Army, that is another matter entirely.”

“I understand, and thank you, General Washington, for this measure of mercy.”

* * *

_Two days later..._

 

With a freshly pressed uniform, clean-shaven, and groomed as best as he could, Ben followed the two guards and began the long walk towards the schoolhouse where the court-martial would take place. It was to take place in the nearest village to the fort. Even with Abe walking beside him, dressed in his best clothes as well, Ben could feel curious eyes of the villagers and of the soldiers who did not have any pressing duties and wished to hear the proceedings, upon him. There was no escaping it though, not until his and his counterpart's names were cleared.

“Don't look at them, just keep walking,” he heard Abe murmur from beside him, though he wasn't sure if that bit of encouragement was for his or Abe's own sake. They were both nervous, and he knew that it was for different reasons. Both of them had much to lose; the five days they had spent trying to hash out their defenses had resulted in very little sleep gotten by all of them.

The spring sun was barely rising above the still bare but budding trees when he and Abe finally arrived at the schoolhouse and entered. It took him a moment to adjust his eyes to the relative dimness of the schoolhouse, but as he passed by the gallery on his way up, he saw that many of the soldiers sitting in the seats were Continentals, with a few scattered ones being US Army. Caleb, Carrie, Andrew along with Lieutenants Spiers, Adams, Winters, and Corporal Hart were sitting in one row. Mari Woodhull, he did not expect to show, since she was shadowing Abe, but knew and understood that she would not be needed in the schoolhouse during the trial. He did not see Samantha, Natalie, or Mr. Sackett in the schoolhouse – Hamilton had made them aware that Sackett had been summoned up from Morristown to attend to the Andre defection. The rest of his family, namely Sackett's wife, had also been requested to travel up to address the modification of the serum.

Apart from Samantha's visit last night that was accompanied by Major Jefferson, in which she had unexpectedly slapped Benji in clear anger and grief before hugging him tightly in forgiveness and took the blue-white uniform jacket that had been stolen from her away, he had not seen Natalie or his mentor since that fateful night. He supposed that it was for the better, though Samantha had offhandedly told them that both Natalie and Natalie's brother, Mikhail, had been assigned to watch over Andre for now.

The fact that Alton-Tallmadge had shot Natalie and Mikhail's little sister should have caused him not to feel guilt, but he could not help but feel it – the man was a descendant of his and also Samantha's father. He didn't even know how Samantha felt about the fact that her father was alive, when she thought he was dead. It was despairing and angering to see what relationships and friendships he had cultivated crumbled to dust by one man's action.

Taking a seat at the front, he dared not look back to see who else was filing in as Abe took a seat next to him and started to pull out reference notes and books that he needed to present the case. Somewhere in the gallery, Ben knew that Hamilton was going to be observing the proceedings and from the results, form the second part of the defense they needed to clear Benji's name. However, a rather loud murmur swept through the gallery, causing his curiosity to override his determination as he turned to see what was causing the commotion.

General Washington had arrived, accompanied by Sackett. However, following Washington was Lieutenant General Washington, and accompanying her was Natalie. Natalie was not wearing her blue cotton dress and was instead, wearing the mottled-colored BDU that he had first seen her in. However, Lady Washington's uniform was unusually striking.

A pale light green shirt was buttoned up underneath her jacket with a small dark green cravat of sorts tucked under the collar. Both the long trousers and jacket she wore were of a dark, olive-green color, and fitted to her. Three, closely spaced brass buttons ran up the sleeves of her jacket, while three buttons that ran down from the middle of her chest until a little past her navel clasped the green jacket together that also had small folded lapels reinforcing the collar. The center point of the lapels had insignia bearing the letters 'US' pinned to both sides. Three small, brass stars were pinned on either side of the shoulder straps of her jacket, denoting her rank. She had an etched tag of sorts pinned just to the left of the left lapel, bearing her surname: Washington. Her black shoes echoed on the wooden floor with each step she took, but it was the pride in the way she walked that drew even further attention than her unusual uniform.

The four of them took their seats in the middle of the gallery but not a moment later, there was the call for, “All rise.”

They all stood as five generals entered, led by General Scott. Sullivan, Knox, and to his surprise, Greene, and his old regiment commander from his days in the Connecticut militia, General Wadsworth, followed Scott into the schoolhouse. However, there was a sixth commander that followed after the five men, Commander Jake Creighton. The uniform that he wore was of a stark white color – white jacket, white trousers, white shoes, brass buttons, black polygon cravat of sorts tied under the collar of his shirt, and white shirt underneath, with the same type of 'US' lettering on the jacket's lapels. The only difference was the tag that denoted his surname and the epaulet boards upon his shoulders: black with three gold stripes at the end near the shoulder and a single star above those stripes.

The six commanders took their seats on the panel just as Scott said, “You may sit.”

Ben took a deep breath and silently blew it out as he sat, with Abe whispering to him, “Do you know who that man in white is?”

“Yeah,” he whispered, leaning over slightly, “Commander Jake Creighton, US Navy.”

“Navy? I thought this was an Army proceeding,” he heard Abe mutter.

“He's the only other officer from the future that is independent of either Lieutenant General Washington or General Tallmadge's commands,” he answered and fell silent, returning his attention to the forefront as the proceeding began, with the charges against him being read and laid out.

Out of the six commanders on the panel, Wadsworth was the furthest removed from the events and had most likely not even encountered or was involved with the future-people. Thus, his former commander during the early days of his enlistment would prove to be the most neutral, if not hardest to convince of his innocence. The day was young, but the battle had already started.

* * *

_New Haven_

 

“Oof, there you go Thomas,” Anna heard Mary say as she glanced over from her sorting of a sack of dried and crushed lavender that had recently been brought in from Boston. The child was now sitting on a chair that had been relieved of its crate for the moment while Mary had moved the crate elsewhere. “Now, please, Thomas, don't hop off this chair. Mother needs to do some sorting for the moment and cannot play with you. We'll go down to the Green later and look for robins' nests, all right?”

Anna couldn't help but smile as the child gave his mother a toothy grin before returning his attention to the stalk of wheat that Peggy had given to him earlier to entertain himself with. “I hope to be as wonderful of a mother as you are to your son, Mary,” she heard Peggy say.

The shop was closed today, even though it was a weekday. General Arnold's two sons had been sent to the schoolhouse to engage in some studies that would help distract them from the lingering aftermath of the horrific carriage accident that had claimed their aunt, Hannah Arnold's life. Peggy had some coin from her governess work that she had been doing while living in Boston. There was enough to at least send the boys to school for a month as she tried to get her bearings and sorted out the mess that had been left behind. Feeling sorry and worried for her, especially since she was not only a fellow former agent, but also the fact that her husband was far and away, Anna had decided to help her.

Mary had also helped whenever she, Anna, wasn't able to, due to her own duties at her husband's tavern. However, neither of them had revealed their true names or the fact that they knew of her association with the ring – it was better if Peggy did not know for now, considering her burdens at the moment, and their own safety. But united in their determination to help this poor woman, she had found that her relationship with Mary was cordial, though distant. Neither of them had forgotten that she, Anna, and Abe had perpetuated adultery and that Mary had initially given her consent to it. They were not friends, but they were united in their determination to keep Abe and the others safe.

“I'm sure you'll make a fine mother, Peggy,” Mary answered, giving a kind and gentle smile towards the beautiful woman.

Even dressed so plainly, Anna knew that Margaret Shippen Arnold was quite beautiful, and could only imagine the numerous amounts of men's attention she had attracted when dressed up as she had most likely been when she had told them of the Boston soiree to celebrate the alliance made with their new allies from Russia. Of course, the horrific aftermath of that celebration was printed upon the gazettes, but to hear it in person from someone who had been in the middle of that was a little more terrifying than she would admit. Ben and Caleb, when they had been wintering here, had not talked much about the second invasion of Boston, but she was sure that both of them had been in the thick of the fighting. She had seen a haunted look occasionally appear on their faces, the same look that she had seen on her husband at times when the noise of the tavern got a little too rowdy.

A knock at the door startled them from the good mood as the three of them frowned. There was a clear sign on the front of the door that said the apothecary was closed. Anna saw Peggy dust her hands of the herbs she was currently sorting and wipe it on her apron before stepping out from behind the counter and headed towards the door. She cracked it open, saying, “I apologize good sir, but we're closed-- oh! Mr. Creighton?”

“Miss Shippen...or rather, Mrs. Arnold,” a youthful male voice said. “There is someone here to see you.”

“Oh!” Peggy exclaimed after a moment, throwing the door open as she knelt down and embraced a young boy who had appeared from behind the young man. “Oh, you poor thing,” she continued to say as Anna recognized the young boy to be of relation to the other two boys. The boy was General Arnold's eldest son.

“But how?” she couldn't help but ask, taking a few steps forward at the same time Mary did – both of them quite surprised at this turn of events. “We... how did you find him good sir? He's been missing since last year...”

“If,” the young man began, but hesitated for a moment as Anna saw him frown, squinting at both her and Mary. “Forgive my rudeness, but I was given a description of two missing women and a child, and both of you and that child match those descriptions.”

“Do we?” Anna stated as a pit of dread opened up within her, mustering as much confidence as she could as she heard Mary take a step back towards little Thomas. “Mrs. Underhill and I have been living in New Haven for a while. Tell me, who would consider us missing? My husband knows where I am, and Mrs. Underhill's husband know where she and their son are.”

“Sir 721.”

Anna stared at the young man, as did Peggy before surprisingly, the woman ushered in Creighton and closed the door tightly behind him. Whispering a few words to the young boy, Peggy then sent him up the stairs and into the house. By that time, Anna managed to compose herself and shakily said, “721. You're one of the agents...”

“Infiltrated into Long Island and the city to replace you and 722,” Creighton finished up. “We had orders to make it look like the two of you and 722's wife and child went missing. I was given the direction to make it seem as if I were searching for you in southern Connecticut, but I never thought that you would be in New Haven of all places. This is Continental-controlled territory that is too close to British lines. But it seems that you also know that Mrs. Arnold here was also an agent.”

“You're... you knew?” Peggy began, looking quite surprised at both her and Mary.

“Your letters to those in Boston,” Anna carefully stated, knowing that in the light of day, this place was not the safest place to have a discussion such as this. Neither could they all move the discussion up into the house without arousing suspicions from people who casually peered through the windows of the apothecary. “722 and I know of the method to encrypt them and your decryption of those letters were exact word-for-word copies.”

“I believe that we can establish further veracity to the words, but for now, I would like to know how General Arnold's eldest son came to be traveling with you, Mr. Creighton,” Mary spoke up, stepping away from her son.

“General Arnold has defected to the British,” Creighton stated.

“What?!” Peggy exclaimed. “How...why?”

“He asked for his son's release, with the condition that his wife join him,” the young man answered.

“He knew... he knew about his son?” Peggy whispered in fear.

“I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I must bring you back with me, Mrs. Arnold. Captain Simcoe insists--”

“Simcoe is here?!” Anna interrupted, fear crawling along her stomach.

“Not here, but he is about ten miles outside of New Haven, southwards,” Creighton answered. “He has Rangers, Rangers with their strange weapons that spit blue bolts out, with him. They have not yet received orders to attack New Haven, but I fear that they might. I can do my best to distract him for the moment, and give all of you time to get out, but I cannot do anything to overtly help without compromising my own position.”

“Sheridan's Rangers,” Anna could not help but murmur.

“Pardon?” Creighton asked.

“I remember overhearing 725 telling Selah about them,” she answered.

“Hannah Arnold is dead, Mr. Creighton,” Mary spoke up, “and therefore, Mrs. Arnold here must make arrangements for the care of General Arnold's sons if she is to be the only one to join him. Bring that back to Simcoe and have him receive further orders about whether or not Mrs. Arnold should travel with the three boys. That will give us enough time to get to safety, send for help, and warn the militia about Simcoe and the Rangers.”

“Mary--”

“That is what we shall do, and it should give us two or three days at the most,” Mary insisted, the expression on her face saying that she would book no arguments. “Mr. Creighton, on behalf of my husband, I thank you for the warning you've brought and for what you have done to keep us safe thus far. We shall make our own arrangements to escape this place and find somewhere else to hide. Do not compromise yourself for our sake.”

“I won't ma'am, and thank you.”

* * *

_In a village schoolhouse just outside of Fort West Point_

 

“Call forth the next witness.”

The murmurs from the back of the gallery swept up to the front like an ocean wave as the footsteps of the next witness to take the stand echoed within the schoolhouse. Ben was just as surprised as the rest of the gallery as he saw of all people he least expected to appear, Bradford was being called up to the stand. He had not known that the man had been spared the hangman's noose, but seeing him now... it was quite a surprise and immediately, he felt anxious. Though the man was demoted to what appeared to be Lieutenant, he and Bradford had never gotten along – was Bradford going to testify against him? Assassinate his character? He glanced over at Abe – his friend was definitely surprised as well, and neither of them knew what this man on the stand was going to do. Who had requested the panel to call him in?

“Lieutenant Bradford,” General Wadsworth began, “Where are you currently stationed?”

“Philadelphia, sir,” Bradford answered, keeping his gaze straight ahead, almost staring at the door, as Ben studied the man. “As an aide under General Greene's command.”

“And for the record, you have independently petitioned this panel, without knowledge or request for approval from your commander, to speak at this trial, correct?” Wadsworth asked.

“Yes, sir.”

The panel members look at each other, with slight nods of agreement towards each other before Scott spoke up, “Then you may proceed, Lieutenant.”

“I wish to attest to the characters of both Major Tallmadge and General Tallmadge, sirs,” Bradford stated, finally turning his gaze towards the panel. The generals remained silent and Bradford took it as an invitation to continue, saying, “For the record, I have to state that Major Tallmadge and I never agreed on many subjects and our arguments have at times, become quite heated. However, both he and I were able to put those disagreements aside during battles. The valor and bravery he had displayed during the battle at Monmouth, especially in light of the weaponry brought forth by the enemy was a credit to keeping many of the cavalrymen alive. Were it not for his determination to suggest and take bold action that frightened the enemy and inspired the rest of us to follow his lead, then I believe that many of us would not be here today. Tip of the spear, I believe is what my former commander, General Lee, had told him to be at Haddonfield. That spear has not broken or lost its sharpness yet.”

Bradford fell silent, but Ben was astonished at what the man said. Never did he think that someone who had disparaged Washington two years prior, got into a fistfight over a villainous pamphlet, and even gone through a trial similar to his own right now and was apparently acquitted but severely demoted, would say something like that. It was... quite extraordinary to think about, and he could not help but wonder what on God's good green earth made the man say something like that.

Lieutenant Bradford's statement with regards to his character was not to destroy his character, but instead, it helped him – greatly helped him. But it was not over yet, as he heard Scott dismiss the officer. Would Bradford give another positive statement on Ben's counterpart? He didn't know, but he could only pray that the man would.

* * *

_A few miles south, outside of New Haven_

 

“I would have thought by now you would have completed your investigation in Setauket, Major Rogers.”

Robert Rogers ignored the light, condescending tone of Simcoe who was sitting next to him upon his own horse. The partial camp that had been made this close to Continental-controlled territory and lines was in his opinion, quite idiotic, but he wasn't about to call Simcoe out on his stupidity. He was, however, quite curious as to the men and women that had appeared with Simcoe a couple of days ago, bearing the name of the Sheridan Rangers.

Last he had encountered the Rangers was during the time where he served in the midst of the western Connecticut forces, when it had been under the control of Continental-US forces. While he swore no allegiance to the Continental forces, it had been Tallmadge's descendant, General Tallmadge, who had informed him of what he was perceived as, to the British. Of course, he had not believed that until he had gone back into the city and seen the open disdain that they held of him, especially from those in British High Command.

But that did not meant that he subscribed wholeheartedly to what Tallmadge had stated either – he was as the whelp had described him in the most apt of words: mercenary. He would fight this war his own way, and for now, his services were needed to aid Simcoe in escorting Mrs. Arnold back to the city. It was a nice change to the apparent run around he and the Creighton boy had been giving to Simcoe and the man's own Rangers. Not that his own Rangers were anything to sneeze at – they were definitely more well versed in the hunt and deception that played out in the woods of western Connecticut.

Now, though, with the arrival of a severe-looking woman who called herself Commandant Sheridan and the remaining Sheridan Rangers she had under her command, totaled at sixty, he wondered if orders to invade New Haven were about to be given. If the unexpected defeat during the winter from General Tryon's forces were anything to say, Rogers was sure that there was some sort of reinforcements left in New Haven from the British's winter attempt. However, there was blood on Commandant Sheridan's mind – especially after they had been informed of what had happened at Fort West Point.

Seven hundred Sheridan Rangers had been whittled down to sixty, slaughtered at West Point, but if he remembered Tallmadge's words and his own encounters about the dangerous Rangers, even with sixty, they were still a formidable force. However, the rapid hoof beats echoing through the late spring day caught their attention as they saw a rider approach from the road before turning and headed towards them. There was no one following the rider.

“Creighton,” Simcoe simply stated as the young man halted his horse with a whinny in front of them.

“I apologize for my abruptness, Captain, but Mrs. Arnold has received the boy, but has informed me that General Arnold's sister died from a carriage accident a few days ago. I have passed on General Arnold's request to her, but she requests to make arrangements for the care and well being of the children before she leaves. Due to the strict nature of the orders we received, I wasn't sure if our orders enabled us to bring the children with us, and request clarification, sir.”

“You're right,” Simcoe stated, a thin, friendless smile upon his face. “Our orders were quite strict, but I shall allow you to ride with all haste to New York to seek clarification. I would hate to part the Arnolds from their children under such circumstances and cause further grief.”

“Yes, sir, right away,” the young man said, before turning and kicking his horse off in a canter.

“Captain Simcoe,” Rogers spoke up, suspicion crawling through him with the underlying meaning of, “Might I remind you that we do not have orders to attack New Haven.”

“No, we do not, Major Rogers,” the man answered in a genial but dangerous tone, “but once the Sheridan Ranger that I have dispatched to Setauket and informs Director Andre of what our Commandant has discovered lingering around the outskirts of this port-city, I believe that our orders will change.”

“And what might that be?” he bluntly asked.

“I'm not sure of it myself, but considering that the future is indeed quite strange, I'm inclined to believe the Commandant's words. She stated that elements of an elite foreign force from her era, called the Third Section, are here in this place. We know not why they are here, but I have every intention of finding out. Deploy your forces and pass word to the Commandant to have her people maintain a perimeter of ten miles away from the city in all directions,” Simcoe ordered, before tugging his horse to ride away to inform his men of their own mission, whatever that may be.

Rogers saw him pause for a moment before turning slightly around in his saddle, saying, “The rebels would not protect this city with such a heavy, but secretive force unless there is _someone_ or something of vital importance here.”

* * *

_Late next day..._

 

As Hamilton finished reading his closing statements and sat back down, Ben found himself staring at the back of his counterpart's head, neck and uniform more in curiosity than interest – something to distract him from the nervousness that fluttered in his stomach. He and Abe were the only ones sitting in the row directly behind the defendant's table. When his counterpart and Hamilton had arrived early this morning to take their seats at the table, he had been quite surprised at the sharpness and precision that his counterpart had displayed in the way he carried and wore the US Army dress uniform. While the outfit was borrowed from Jefferson, since they still could not find Tallmadge's robotic horse among those weaponry recovered; with the two being nearly the same height and build, one star on either side of the uniform's shoulder straps denoted Tallmadge's formerly breveted and confirmed rank. Even Tallmadge's long hair had been completely shaved into close-cropped haircut that he remembered Hart informing him long ago, was within the military's regulations.

There was now a crystal clear difference between how they look and acted, for the bearing that his counterpart wore, even when sitting, made even the generals at the table look slightly slouchy. Only Commander Creighton seemed to sit as Tallmadge sat – straight up, eyes forward, hands clasped upon the table and unmoving. Not once in the entire proceeding thus far, even this late into the evening, did Ben see his counterpart fidget. The discipline that Tallmadge exuded made him feel inadequate in his own bearings.

There was a burst of whispers up on the panel as he flicked his eyes over towards the commanders, seeing them lean towards one another, conferring quickly on the opinions. However, that was short-lived as they all fell silent. A moment later, Ben saw his counterpart rise, standing at attention as General Scott also stood. “It is of the opinion of the court,” Scott began, “that we find Brigadier General Benjamin Sheridan Tallmadge of the United States Armed Forces fully acquitted of the charges laid against him.”

In the moment of silence that followed the statement and the sound of the gavel hitting the table, one could hear a pin drop. That silence was shattered by a cheering roar from the gallery, stemming mainly from those from the future who had gathered to watch the proceedings. However, Ben was too elated to even fully process the noise as he was among those who stood and immediately embraced his counterpart in a back-slapping hug. Both of them had been fully acquitted. Against all odds, they had won.

As he let go, he saw Abe heartily shaking Hamilton's hands before clasping arms with Tallmadge and congratulating them. Hamilton offered the same congratulatory handshake to Ben, and Ben accepted it – the two King's College law students were quite a formidable team. Just as he let go of the colonel's hand, he was suddenly bowled over as the excited cheer from Samantha, hugging both him and Tallmadge. Her joyous cry nearly caused him to become deaf.

As he regained his footing, he caught the amused glance his counterpart had thrown him before Samantha let him go and clung onto the arm of her cousin, grinning like a mad woman. Ben's smile got wider as both Caleb and Carrie also descended upon the little group, though he could see that Hamilton was trying to extricate himself from the throng, throwing a slightly baffled, desperate look towards someone in the back of them.

Ben turned to see that Laurens and Lafayette were near the entrance grinning in amusement, while Andrew was outright laughing, and Jefferson was shaking his head at the antics being displayed. Natalie was still walking by Lady Washington's side as he saw Sackett and Washington depart, though all of them had paused near the entrance, turning back to see what was happening. The two generals' expressions were quite mild, though there was an open smile upon Natalie's face and a more exasperated one on Sackett's face. However, it seemed that Jefferson was the one to break up the little cabal as he saw him approach.

“All right peeps, give the Tall-twins and their awesome lawyers some room to breathe,” Jefferson said, tugging on Samantha's arm. “You can mob them outside.”

“Aww, fine,” Samantha said, pouting and reluctantly let go of her cousin's arm. Extricating themselves from the throng, they finally left to go wait outside, leaving him, his counterpart, Hamilton, and Abe as the only ones remaining in the schoolhouse.

“Abe and Colonel Hamilton,” Ben said after a moment, putting his hand out again, “thank you. Thank you for everything both of you have done.”

“You're welcome,” Abe said, taking his hand and firmly shaking it before letting go and allowing Hamilton to do the same. Tallmadge expressed the same sentiments and as soon as the exchange was complete, Hamilton turned to pick up his books, quill, ink, and folio of documents.

“Mr. Woodhull,” Hamilton said pausing in his departure and turning back, “I find that we work well together. If you find yourself in need of a law practice to apply your acumen after this is all over, come find me.”

“Uh,” Abe spluttered in surprise, “sure. Thank you for the offer, Colonel Hamilton.”

As soon as Hamilton crossed the threshold to the schoolhouse, Ben heard his counterpart whistle in surprise before saying, “Well, gents, I don't know about you, but I'm hungry. And I don't want to be stuck in this suit any longer. As snazzy as it is, I rather be wearing my BDUs.”

“We'll catch up with you in a few minutes,” Ben said, placing a hand on Abe's arm to let him know that he wanted to talk to him privately for a moment. Out there, at least in the next few hours before they would most likely pass out from exhaustion or too much to drink in celebration, he would not get another chance to talk to Abe in private.

His counterpart merely nodded and left without another word. As soon as the door to the schoolhouse closed, Ben asked, “Are you going to be all right, Abe?”

“Yeah, yeah,” his friend answered, running a hand through his hair, looking quite tired. “I just need some sleep--”

“No, I mean are you going to be all right? They're going to have to publish your name in the gazettes... are you sure you're fine?”

There was a sharpness in the look that his friend gave him before Abe curtly nodded, saying, “I was already in danger the minute I signed up to do this, as was my family. Even more so when those people from the future appeared. I've been running for my life since then, and I'm tired of running, tired of hiding from who I really am. This spy business may be ungentlemanly, but at least the world will know that I am a Patriot.”

* * *

_The next morning..._

 

Ben looked up just as a hot, steaming mug of coffee thunked down on the table in front of him, before Natalie took a seat next to him, placing her own mug of tea down as well. This was a communal tent for officers to dine in, or for Washington to host meals, but at the moment, it was empty. It was also quiet, which was what he needed to start reading through all of the reports that he had missed while temporarily relieved of his duties. He murmured his thanks as she reached over a briefly squeezed his hand before letting go and took out a large stack of notebooks, reports, and pieces of parchment from the pouch she had slung over her shoulder.

“It's hard to believe that the week that I am temporarily relieved of my duties is the week where everything, including the defection of the British Head of Intelligence, happened,” he couldn't help but stare at the stack she had placed on the table.

“Nathaniel and I have been fielding them as best as possible, though the credit goes to Colonel Laurens.” she answered.

“Natalie,” he said after a moment of silence, “I'm sorry. I'm sorry for you and your brother's loss. I had asked General Washington--”

“Mikhail and I will be fine,” she gently interrupted. “We are strong. You needn't worry about us. I had a chance to see my father while I was recovering in Boston over the winter, and I understand why Command did what he had to. There was no turning back for either him or my sister. The fact that Nathaniel and I undid some of Command's efforts on Mari Woodhull using the same techniques that we tried upon my father proves that Director Andre and Commandant Sheridan's manipulations are impossible to reverse.”

“Your father...”

“He is resting in peace, no longer a pawn to be used by our enemies,” she answered, though however, before she could continue, the tent flap was opened.

“Natalie,” he heard and saw Lottie duck in with her young brother clinging onto her dress, carrying two pieces of parchment in one hand, one that was formerly sealed but still folded, the other open and an inkwell and quill in the other. “How do you spell 'indefatigable'?” She stopped short of sitting at the table as she looked up from what he could only assume was a letter she was writing with a little 'o' upon her face. “Good morning, Major Tallmadge,” she politely said, coloring slightly as she tried to discreetly yank her brother's grip upon her dress away.

“Good morning,” he answered, though he could not help but smile. Mrs. Sackett and her children had arrived at the encampment yesterday afternoon, but it seemed that Mrs. Sackett had been put to work on the serum, for he remembered that it was usually her who took care of little David. It seemed now that Lottie was in charge of caring for her brother while their mother was busy.

“I-N-D-E-F-A-T-I-G-A-B-L-E,” Natalie spelled out as Ben glanced back to see her get up, a most curious of expressions upon her face. “May I ask who are you writing?”

“No,” she squeaked, much to both of their surprise before pressing the parchment towards her.

“Lottie,” Natalie asked, annoyed. And just as the two started arguing back and forth, Ben noticed that the tent flap had opened again, but as quick as he saw his counterpart peek his head in, he saw his counterpart's eyes face fall into an amused expression before leaving the tent as quick as he had entered. Ben blinked, somehow not amused that his counterpart was content on leaving him alone to deal with two arguing agents.

“If I promise to not share it with your mother, will you tell me?” he heard Natalie ask, returning his attention to the two women.

“If you want, I can cover my ears,” Ben offered, as a fond memory of a much younger Anna behaving in a similar fashion that Lottie was currently behaving in, surfaced in his mind. He had not understood the shyness that Anna displayed during those years when they had grown up, but now, he was much the wiser. Covering his ears to ease Lottie's shyness about the subject of the letter was the least he could could for the young woman, for then he would have plausible deniability and would not be able to tell either his mentor or his mentor's wife.

Lottie shook her head, before reluctantly handing over the folded parchment and letter she was writing to Natalie. He saw Natalie purse her lips for a moment after she unfolded and read through the sealed letter before taking a look at the letter that Lottie was in the midst of writing. Ben was curious as to whom the young woman was writing to, but he was much too polite to inquire into the Sackett family's business – unless it was related to espionage, he felt that he had no right to intrude on the family.

“At least encrypt your reply with a basic cipher that he may easily understand,” Natalie said after a few long minutes, handing the pieces of parchment back to the young woman. “You have to keep not only yourself, but him safe too. Boston is under Continental control, but letters will constantly cross enemy lines, and if the enemy finds out that either of you are agents under His Excellency's command, they can use that against you.”

“Yes, madam,” Lottie answered in a formal manner, though Ben did not miss the quick glance she gave him before focusing her attention back on the letters in her hand. That glance, plus Natalie's words was enough to let him know that the young woman knew of the truth of what happened to her father in Philadelphia.

“Lottie,” he spoke up before the young woman could leave. “I will not deny you permission for personal correspondence, but I need to know. Which agent are you writing to?”

“Mr. Archibald James, sir,” she answered in a soft tone, looking not quite at him, but definitely flushing pink in embarrassment. “I inquired about his health after Mother, David, and I joined Father at General Washington's camp. He lost his leg protecting Abby and I during the evacuation, and...”

“It's all right,” he said, getting up. He finally had an explanation as to how his former Yale classmate, acquaintance, and agent lost his leg during the siege of Boston last year. “You don't have to explain yourself any further--”

“Ben! Ben!”

Caleb's yelling of his name and tear into the tent interrupted the calm mood within as he saw his friend waving a folded up gazette before slamming the paper down on the table in front of him. “Correspondence from Culper Junior _and_ this thing that was published early this morning. Thank goodness for robotic horses because we've got trouble, Ben.”

Unfolding the gazette, he saw that it was the main British one that was printed and distributed around the New York region. However, it was the headline on the left most column that caught his attention: [ _Declaration of Heresy and Witchcraft Within the Rebel Army_ ]. The author of the article's name was underneath the headline and Ben felt his fists ball up in anger.

“Arnold,” he managed to grind through clenched teeth as an ice-cold anger swept through him. Everything that he and his agents had worked for, risked their lives for, to prevent General Benedict Arnold from turning – wasted. Absolutely wasted.

“It's worse, Ben,” Caleb insisted. “You need to read it.”

“I don't need to,” he coldly stated after reading the first line in the article. “He's done what Lee's done except worse. That shite bastard is going to successfully do what Lee failed to do – tear this army and alliance apart.”

“Ben,” Caleb said as Ben felt two hands being placed upon his chest in an effort to prevent him from marching right out of the tent and immediately bringing the paper to his commander. “There's more. Culper Junior couldn't write this in invisible ink – there was no time.”

A piece of folded page from an almanac was shoved in front of his face. He took it and opened it. The missive was encrypted, but it looked like it was written in a hurry. As soon as he finished reading it, he snatched up the paper and the missive. One of the people written on the missive was supposed to be dead – he had seen the man's dead body slit from ear-to-ear in New Haven. “Caleb, summon all agents within the camp for a briefing in this tent. I'll be right back after I inform Washington of the news.”

Without waiting for an acknowledgment from his friend, he swept out, carrying both the damning gazette and the report from Culper Junior: [ _Captain Simcoe ten miles from New Haven. General Benedict Arnold sighted in New York City in the company of Director Andre. Deputy Director Simcoe sighted in Setauket._ ]

 

~*~*~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 01 Aug 2016: and so ends the Season 3 parallel. I hoped that you've all enjoyed the wild ride so far! I will be taking a break from this fic until Season 4 begins next year. Please subscribe or bookmark if you would like to receive updates when the Season 4 parallel begins.


	32. The Black Hole of New Haven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 28 June 2017 - And... let the madness continue onwards with the final season parallel! Also, I apologize if there are any grammatical, spelling, or OOC moments. It's been nearly a year since I've written for the fandom, so getting the various POVs back into the right 'voice' took a while.

**Chapter 32: The Black Hole of New Haven**

_Fort West Point, 9 Hours Earlier..._

 

“Benji! Lookie what I found! I found your horse!”

Ben looked up from the chess board that was still full of pieces, only to see Samantha bounding up to them before dramatically flopping onto the logs they were sitting on. In an exaggerated fashion, she then handed a cube no larger than the size of the palm of his hand over to his counterpart, as if she were gifting something expensively delicate. In the firelight that reflected off the cube, he could see the etching of [721] on one of the sides. His attention was then diverted back to Samantha, just in time to see her taking a large swig out of the bottle of Madeira she had in her other hand.

He heard his counterpart bark in laughter before shaking his head. “Thanks, Sammie,” he heard him say, just as she finished gulping down her drink, and grinned madly at both of them. In the firelight she looked a little wild with her hair askew, but gaily punched her cousin in the arm.

“And guess what Ben,” she said, turning her attention to him.

“What?” he asked, humoring her, finding her good mood incredibly infectious. Even though the chess game that he and his counterpart were currently engaged in was supposed to be a 'friendly' match, neither of them really wanted to lose.

“I drank the Brewsters-two, Hart, Davenport, Adams, and Jefferson under the table!” she crowed, slurring her words slightly. “I win!”

Ben followed her rather drunk gestures towards another campfire, only to see that Caleb and his counterpart, along with the other aforementioned members of the 2nd Light-Legions leaning against each other or were draped haphazardly over logs. Hart was curled up into ball-like position, wedged between two enormous logs. All were surrounded by bottles upon empty bottles that were somewhat scattered all over the area.

“I'm impressed,” he couldn't help but say. It was the truth, and even though his sensibilities were not quite addled with just how much he himself had imbibed thus far into the evening, he found himself in good humor. It truly was a brave new world that he had finally accepted into his life, considering just how strange this war had become in a little over two years.

“Okay, I'm sleepy and going to sleep now, g'night,” he heard Samantha say in nearly one breath as she then slid down from where she had been sitting and onto the ground. Pillowing her arms, she leaned against it and fell fast asleep. Not even five seconds after Ben saw her close her eyes, the bottle she had been holding slipped from her hands, and was deftly caught by Tallmadge. He saw him put the Madeira down before gently and affectionately pat Samantha on her head.

“We can resume this match some other time, if you would like help to bring her back to her tent, sir,” he offered.

“Thanks, but I'll wait a little for her to get into a deeper state of sleep before moving her from here,” the man stated. “I've been warned countless amounts of time to not disturb Sammie during the first hour or so of her drunken sleep. She apparently kicks... really hard.”

“Warned or experienced?” he asked, chuckling.

“Both,” his counterpart answered, grinning.

Ben took a sip out of the bottle he had placed to the side. While not as inebriated as Samantha, this was the first time in a while that he had had the chance to _enjoy_ drinking a good, stiff, drink without needing it to wash away bad memories or frustration. “So, I meant to ask earlier about your hand,” he said, gesturing towards the formerly amputated limb on his counterpart's arm. “How...?”

“Did it grow back?” Tallmadge finished, rolling up his sleeve to show a well muscled, evenly colored arm that held no 'seam' of sorts that would have indicated that the arm was a false one made to look like the same color as the rest of his skin. Even in the dim firelight, the way the man held his arm against the light gave Ben a clear look at the fact that there was even small hairs on the arm.

“It's cloned – a copy,” his counterpart continued to say. “Back when you were captured by the three assassins and almost implanted with the cocktail that would have made you complaint to the Director's commands, I was nearly passed out from the pain of non-existence. Sometime during that, I had apparently given my consent to my mother to transform me, to stop the non-existence from happening. The end result is this arm.”

Ben frowned. While there were so many questions he had about his counterpart's survival during that time, he could not let the seed of doubt as to the loyalty of his counterpart cloud his mind or take root. The past few days, along with the subtle actions that Tallmadge had taken during West Point and its aftermath were proof enough of his loyalty to the cause.

“So, William...”

“Yeah, my brother,” Tallmadge said, letting some bitterness creep into his tone. “Our mother did something to him as well. I don't know what it is, and I sure as hell don't want to know what it is, but you remember what I told you back when you were being strung up in that cell below the fort, right?”

“That if I died, your existence wouldn't be threatened?” he said, mentally shuddering slightly at the memory as it dampened his spirits slightly.

His counterpart silently nodded before saying, “I think my mother had managed to salvage some of the tech from Deputy Director Simcoe's laboratory before it was flooded. It wasn't much, but I hadn't heard of anything larger than the arm she created for me, being made. She had repaired some of her men and women's injuries, using grafts and some other medical stuff that I'm definitely not familiar with.”

Silence fell between them for a few minutes before Ben quietly asked, “I know that it may be difficult to secure any promises, especially from General Washington, but do you have any requests on what is to be done with your brother? I do not know if Washington will want to claim him as a prisoner of war – used to be bartered in exchange for some of ours.”

“William can rot in hell for all I care,” the man viciously stated, before having the decency to look slightly ashamed of his words. “I apologize. My relationship with my brother was not like yours with Samuel.”

“I understand, sir,” he answered. “I am just wondering if Commandant Sheridan will be amenable to possibly helping us with modifying this serum you stole, so that Director Andre can be killed.”

“Honestly, I don't know at this point,” Tallmadge answered, shrugging slightly. “William is the favored one in the family, but yeah... it looks like Uncle Julian may need more than just 18th century equipment to modify the serum. I don't know if he's willing to work with the Commandant though. There's enough bad blood between everyone with the last name of Tallmadge or Sheridan to last several life times.”

“Point taken and noted, sir,” he answered.

“But come on, let's not keep talking about these things,” his counterpart said, smiling. “Help me get Sammie to her tent and we can then go see if moving the Brewsters-two from under the so-called table can also be done.”

“I'm going to pass on moving Caleb from where he is, sir,” he politely declined, but couldn't help but smile in return as he gave the reason. “To counterpoint Samantha's kicking drunk, I was punched by Caleb the last time I tried to move him back to his cot. He had mistaken me for Bradford.”

“Oh... was this after that bar fight between you, Bradford, and Bradford's boys that Carrie was telling me about? The one about a pamphlet that was going around the camp?” the man asked, curious.

“Yeah,” he admitted, nodding as he felt the ghost of a phantom pain ache on the split lip and bruised jaw he had gotten during the fight. “We all were a little more than sensible drunks...”

“Well,” Tallmadge said, picking up his own bottle and holding it up. “Here's to good bar fights. Hopefully, I won't miss the next one you're engaged in.”

Ben laughed and picked up his bottle. Clinking it against his counterpart's bottle, he said, “I'll drink to that. May the best Intelligence officer win, sir.”

* * *

_And now, the continuation..._

 

[ _Captain Simcoe ten miles from New Haven. General Benedict Arnold sighted in New York City in the company of Director Andre. Deputy Director Simcoe sighted in Setauket._ ]

Ben clutched the gazette and message tightly in his right hand as he quickly made his way across the fort and the camp that had spilled over its walls. All around him were soldiers still in the midst of waking up for a new day – most of them having partaken in the celebrations that had engulfed the camp from yesterday's successful acquittal of both him and his counterpart.

While he was surprised that Caleb had ridden down to the dead drop and retrieved intelligence so early in the morning – considering that last he had seen him, Caleb had been passed out while trying to competitively drink against Brewster, Jefferson, and the others – he supposed that his friend was used to shaking off hangovers. He was, however, incredibly glad that Caleb had the foresight to even go down to the dead drop, otherwise, they would not have known about Simcoe.

In terms of threat assessment, Simcoe's proximity to New Haven worried him. However, with the members of the Third Section present, he knew that Anna and the others would be protected, though breaking news about Simcoe's presence near the town to Abe would be trickier. Arnold's proximity to Director Andre was a puzzlement and a source of deep-seated anger, considering what the traitorous General had published in the gazette he was holding. It was Deputy Director Simcoe's mention in the report that troubled him the most; he was sure that he had seen the man die and his body burned over the winter.

Yet the report stated that the man was alive. With Culper Junior and Hattersfield currently in hiding until things in New York died down a little, Lieutenant Creighton somewhere in southern Connecticut, Austin Roe was his only man on Long Island that he could possibly tap to gather more information. It was treacherous though, to send someone down to the city or to Long Island to contact Roe at the moment – all because there was the great likelihood that what was left of the Britannian soldiers surrounded the city.

They needed a distraction, and even as he continued to walk at a hurried pace towards his commander's planning tent, an idea was already forming in his mind. The only thing was that it would require him to utilize every single agent present at West Point that he had left in play, _and_ Major John Andre.

~~~

“I wish to resign from my commission and office, ma'am.”

Washington blinked, barely able to keep the surprise he felt from appearing on his face as stared at the man who had at one harrowing time, looked completely identical to his Head of Intelligence. Brigadier General Benjamin Sheridan Tallmadge of the United States Army now had closely shaven and cropped hair, a clean shaven jaw, and was wearing the mottled-green-brown-black uniform. There was clarity in his eyes though, and absolutely no doubt swimming in them. The man who had commanded the 2nd Legionnaires of Connecticut looked absolute in his declaration.

The silence that fell upon the three of them in the planning tent was uncomfortably awkward, but he did not say or move to break it. It was at General Tallmadge's request that he stay, and thus, he observed. His counterpart remained calm and composed, though he wasn't sure what exactly he had seen flash across her eerily red eyes for a moment after that declaration. She was sitting at the table with her hands folded and resting on the top of the table though.

“I will grant you your request, Benjamin, but for the sake of my ancestor here, would you please explain your reasoning?” she asked after a few more moments of silence.

“Even though the court-martial cleared mine and my counterpart's names of any wrong doings, I cannot remain as your second-in-command, ma'am,” he heard the man state, nary a quiver in the tone of his voice. “My actions towards you and General Washington here have been dishonorable. I have also dishonored my family's name, betrayed your trust, and wish not to continue to cause undue strife with my counterpart. Thank you for allowing me to resign, ma'am.”

Tallmadge fell silent, but Washington was burning with questions. Everything that the man had stated could be equally counterpointed, but it was not those counterpoints that he wanted to question the officer's folly. It was the aftermath of his resignation that he wished to know about. Short of allowing the man to leave camp and set off to God knew where, he could see that there was usage in Tallmadge being a civilian and free to roam without hindrance of the military chain of command.

However, Lady Washington did not ask any other questions, and merely followed the next actions of Tallmadge with her eyes. The former Intelligence officer fished out the rank pins he had worn yesterday with his uniform, along with the oak leaf pins of his former rank, and placed them on the table. Just as he stepped back and straightened up to give what Washington to could assume as one final salute towards Lady Washington, there was a loud commotion outside.

Not a second later, the flap opened as Hamilton hastily poked his head in, apologetically saying, “Pardon the interruption sirs and madam, but Major Tallmadge has an urgent report to present.”

“Enter,” he answered, nodding as he saw the former General Tallmadge step to the side. “Mr. Tallmadge,” he said, catching the now-civilian's attention, “please stay for a moment.”

His Head of Intelligence and Hamilton entered, both of whom had heard him state the request to the man. Both of them briefly threw questioning looks towards the former officer, but that spell was broken not a moment later as the urgency of the situation refocused all of them. The Royal Gazette landed on the table, along with a non-encoded piece of parchment.

“Sir,” his Head of Intelligence began, “Arnold has published a defamation article against not only you, but the rest of the Army and Congress. He's calling for Patriots and British to rally against the forces from the future; to set aside the war and ally with him.”

Washington picked up the gazette and quickly read through the rather long-winded, but highly articulated article. Line after line, he could feel his anger grow, but he tried to keep himself as calm as possible – he knew that any sort of emotional outburst would only send his Head of Intelligence, and most capable and trusted aide into planning rash actions. What they needed right now was calm and rational lines of thoughts and ideas. He could also not admit that he agreed with several of the points that Arnold made in the article with regards to the people from the future.

He had tried his damnest to not depend on Lady Washington and her forces, but with Director Andre and the massing of Britannia forces at West Point, it was too much to ignore. As he finished the article, he placed it back down and slid it over to his counterpart. She too, picked it up and read through it, and he waited for her to finish.

“And what of the other report, Major?” he quietly asked, focusing his attention on his Head of Intelligence.

“Caleb said that Townsend had no time to encipher it, sir,” Tallmadge answered, looking extremely worried, as he pushed forward the scrap of paper.

Picking it up, this time, he could not hold back the frown as he read the message. If the report was as fresh as the article in the gazette, then... “Whom is manipulating whom?” he murmured. “Whom is pulling the strings of the puppet that controls the British?”

“Sir?” Hamilton asked.

Putting the scrap down, he tapped it for a moment before saying, “Consider the curious case of General Arnold. He has expressed dissatisfaction in the integration of the forces since the arrival of the 2nd Legionnaires. As has General Scott. We were all forewarned that General Arnold would turn traitor, watched for signs, tried to stop those signs, and yet it still happened. Would it not be said and assumed with reasonable certainty that Director Andre wants deliberate parts of 'history' to happen? Haddonfield, Monmouth, Brandywine, Fort West Point, even the skirmish at Setauket – they all happened.”

“And in each, there were efforts to change it,” Major Tallmadge finished up.

“You believe that Director Andre is manipulating General Arnold? Feeding his distaste at the integration of the forces to heighten discontent, and to draw the failure and loss of West Point away?” the Major's counterpart asked.

“This hunt has just begun,” he answered, nodding as he saw Lady Washington also nod in agreement.

“He will be the hunted,” Hamilton declared. “We will lure not only Arnold, but this Director Andre out and kill both of them.”

Washington gave his most trusted aide a sharp look. “No,” he said. He knew how hawkish Hamilton was with regards to fighting, and how much he wanted to be out in the thick of a battlefield. While he had let his aide 'stretch', he kept him close – Major Tallmadge's activities with his agents, and the 2nd Light-Legions were already putting a part of his intelligence and scouting reports in danger.

“We will not lower ourselves to assassination,” he continued, “Did you not remember, Alexander, that the Culpeper agents have said that time and again, Director Andre cannot be killed? We must capture both of them, alive, retrieve the devices from where they were planted, and only then, can we safely separate these entangled eras.”

“Sir...” his Head of Intelligence began, looking slightly baffled, “you wish to c-capture General Arnold and Director Andre from New York City?”

“We must make a public example out of General Arnold,” he answered before looking over towards his counterpart. “I believe that Lieutenant General Washington would also like to make a public example out of Director Andre – as a warning to other potential ambitious Britannian scientists who would re-attempt to change history for a so-called better future. I want a report on how this may be best achieved by weeks end.”

He saw both Hamilton and Major Tallmadge look at each other, doubt swimming in their eyes. He appended his order, saying, “The three of you shall take on this endeavor.” Focusing his eyes on the now-civilian future Tallmadge, he said, “So long as you will remain with us, I do hope that you would find it amenable to help us, Mr. Tallmadge.”

“It would be my pleasure to help capture those two traitors, sir.”

~~~

The sounds of the camp in the morning were not yet in their prime as Ben stepped out from the tent with Hamilton following behind him. Two steps behind the Lieutenant Colonel was Ben's counterpart. As they all took a few steps away from the guards standing attentively around, he heard Hamilton murmur his apologies to go attend to another matter. That left only him with his counterpart, and he stopped, far enough away from Washington's tent and guards, but not far enough to be in the main thoroughfare that winded its way through the camp.

“Civilian now?” he asked, as his counterpart stopped and faced him.

“I may have been acquitted of all charges, but what I did to your Washington and mine was unconscionable,” his counterpart stated. “Any order that I give or would be given to me would never be trusted again, even within my own unit.”

Ben remained silent at that admission. Though a part of him wanted to protest, wanted to ask the man to reconsider his choices, there was no reason he could give to argue the points made. He had hoped that his counterpart would retake command of the 2nd Light-Legions, or at least the 2nd Legionnaires. While he loved the men and women in the combined forces, juggling his duties between the Culper-Culpeper Ring and the 2nd Light-Legions was difficult and time consuming. He knew that many of the mistakes that happened in the prior year, and even at West Point was because he did not devote his full attention to either.

“Since you are willing to help General Washington and us in this endeavor to capture General Arnold and Director Andre, would you consider becoming an agent within the Ring?” he asked.

“Yes,” he counterpart answered, faintly grinning, “but not under your direct command. I'd rather work in the peripherals, freelance if you would have it. Independent action and decisions that benefit the Ring and Patriot forces as a whole.”

“Similar to that cockeyed feat you performed at Haddonfield?” he challenged, bristling slightly at the terms that his counterpart offered in exchange for his cooperation. It still bothered him as to how arrogant his counterpart behaved, even now--

“I believe that you would have done the same, Major, had you been in my shoes, to save the woman you loved,” his counterpart stated, frowning slightly. “In fact, I believe that you did. In Lower Alloways Creek Township two years ago.”

Ben gave a start; he wanted to protest that that was different, that there was more than just the life of Natalie at stake, but didn't. It dawned on him as to who exactly his counterpart had been talking about – saving the woman he loved – and with that thought came the realization as to the rationale for his counterpart's actions. His counterpart was not only devoted to Lieutenant General Georgia Washington, but also loved her. Ben could only grasp at the edges of what exactly his counterpart had sacrificed to save a beloved commander.

“Forgive me for my words,” he said after a moment, humbled by the thoughts. He stuck his hand out for his counterpart to shake. “It was improper for me to say such things.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Major,” his counterpart stated, but grasped his hand anyways and firmly shook it. “I understand your concerns and want to reassure you that there will be times where I will have to take independent action. Now you know me as well as I know you.”

“As much as I want to know what you Tall-twins just agreed on, we've got a bigger problem,” they heard Caleb called out, as Ben dropped his counterpart's hand. They both turned to see Caleb run up to them, looking quite harried and ruddy. Caleb was supposed to have gathered all available agents within the camp, and Ben was supposed to have headed back there to brief them on the plan he now needed to modify with his new orders from Washington.

“What happened?” he asked, not liking the worry on Caleb's expression.

“Strong-boy and Mari were both complaining of feeling unwell and uneasy,” Caleb answered. “Took us a bit, but it was Tall-girl who figured out that maybe it was because of Anna, Woody's wife and little one, and Selah are in trouble or something. Most likely has to do with the fact that Simcoe is ten miles outside of New Haven.”

“But they're not fading in and out, or having some palsy afflict them?” he asked, as he saw his counterpart frown slightly.

“Not yet,” Caleb answered. “Was going to take those two, Carrie, and Natalie with me to go check stuff out.”

“Where's Abe?” he asked, knowing that their friend would most likely demand to go with Caleb and the other three as soon as he heard that those in New Haven could be in danger. He couldn't let Abe dash off to New Haven – not when he knew how hot-headed his friend could be, whenever it concerned his family. The last thing he needed was Abe to run into clear and present danger, especially with Simcoe. He himself wanted to go after that bastard and get revenge on what happened to his father, but he knew that he couldn't.

“Didn't get to round him up yet,” Caleb answered. “Last I saw, he was still passed out in his tent. Drank too much in celebration last night, I bet. So he hasn't heard about that slimy bastard.”

“All right,” he said, tapping his chin with a finger for a moment. “Get to New Haven, find out what Simcoe is sniffing around there for, and _if_ need be, get Anna and the others out. That includes Arnold's wife, if Simcoe isn't there to escort her to Arnold himself. History, or whatever this 'history' is, knows that Mrs. Arnold was at least loyal to her husband. She might have been discarded by Director Andre, but she might still be useful to us.”

“Benny-boy,” Caleb started, looking a bit unsure, “you sure you want to keep her around? I mean, I don't think she's a bad luck talisman or something, but every time she's in a city that we're in, lots of bad shite's happened.”

“We'll see when the time comes,” he answered.

* * *

_New York City_

 

The disguise was itchy, or rather, the false beard that Robert had been forced to wear for the past few days until he himself grew enough scruff to shed it, was itchy. That, and the pile of ratty cloth that functioned as blankets and tent in this squalor of a hell hole had tiny bugs that bit at him. Still he could not complain as much – the company he held in his new hiding place was a little less rough than the thieves and beggars he had kept.

The crowds in this section of the city were also much livelier, and though he had initially doubted Samantha's wisdom in what she had termed 'hiding in plain sight', he now saw the merit in it. He had been picking up on a lot of small observations of various officers of the British Army. Gossip had no place in the Lord's work, but since his life had been upended two years ago, his faith in the Lord had been heavily tested. Everything that he learned thus far was going to be written down into the next report he was going to drop at the dead drop. He just hoped that General Washington had received the copy of the gazette and the pressing report about the latest in certain persons of interest.

“General Arnold, sir!”

Robert looked over from his seemingly listless staring at a cluster of officers and soldiers who were gathered near Rivington's Inn. He recognized that youthful voice. A little further away from the main entrance to the Inn, coming from another road that intersected with the main thoroughfare that ran through the front. Walking on it were a civilian dressed in finery, along with a British General, and both stopped at the calling out of the General.

Robert frowned slightly and averted his gaze a little so that it wasn't apparent that he was paying attention to the conversation that was about to happen. It was also to ensure that the man in the red coat of the British, the traitorous General Benedict Arnold, would not become suspicious. It became more apparent that many of the other officers around had also given the turncoat a wide berth, though more than a few were giving curious looks at the civilian and the man. It was young Leigh Hattersfield's report that stated that Arnold had been seen with Director Andre, and though he had been told what the Director looked like, the man that Arnold was walking with, looked nothing like what Andre had been described as.

“Yes?” Arnold answered in an impatient tone.

“Sergeant Creighton, sir. I returned your son to New Haven, but there has been a complication,” the young soldier nervously stated.

Robert could see that that nervousness was not false either – Creighton was truly anxious in reporting to Arnold. He had been informed by Samantha and the Hattersfield twins when they had returned to the city last year to help 'replace' the compromised Woodhull, about Creighton and the function the young man played within the cabal. Considering Arnold's demeanor, Robert supposed that he too would have been as nervous as Creighton looked – Arnold did tower over most of the people. The man's demeanor at the moment was also not doing him any favors for geniality.

“What complications?” Arnold demanded.

“Sir, your sister... she was in a carriage accident and was killed a few days ago. Your wife requests clarification of your request for her to join her. She does not want to leave the children in New Haven,” Creighton stated.

“Captain Simcoe has his orders, Sergeant,” Arnold said, glowering slightly. “He will escort not only my wife, but also my children out of New Haven with all haste.”

“Yes, sir,” the young man said, nodding before giving a crisp salute and dashed off.

“The incompetence that I have to deal with, especially with provincial forces, is bloody ridiculous,” he heard Arnold mutter. “What clarification do they possibly hope to gain when it is perfectly clear that my family, no matter how many there are, are to be escorted to New York City?!”

“Allow me to posit a theory, if you will, General,” Robert heard the well-dressed civilian next to Arnold say in a smooth, almost eerily calm and quiet tone. As strange as he found such a civilian even advising a British General on such a matter, it was stranger to see Arnold nod for the man to say his piece. He would have thought that Arnold would have proverbially bitten the merchant's head off for such presumption.

“Perhaps Captain Simcoe has found something of interest in New Haven, but due to eyes and ears everywhere, wishes not to disclose it to any officers. He may want to give his report personally, rather than have an aide deliver it for him,” the man suggested.

“Point taken,” Arnold agreed after a moment, though Robert wasn't sure if he had seen an uncertain or uncomfortable look flit across Arnold's expression. “And this tailor, Mulligan, that you claim is a Patriot spy, and is a known associate and friend of Colonel Hamilton?”

“He frequents this place,” the man stated, gesturing the Rivington's Inn. “Comes in two or three times a week for a drink or to place an ad in the gazette. I have had ample time to observe his comings and goings. This is, after all, a perfect place to spy on military officers.”

“Then why haven't you arrested him yourself and hand in the evidence to the British High Council, if he is a known Patriot to you and your 'future'?” Arnold asked, growling his words low enough that Robert could barely hear them.

However, he didn't need to hear much more as he realized who exactly this man that the traitorous General was talking to: Director John Andre. Except that Andre did not look like what Samantha had sketched out for him. He briefly wondered if the man was wearing what had been described to him as a full-faced mask covering. Something that was able to disguise a man or woman into another likeness without looking false.

“As I said, with the disaster at Haddonfield and West Point, my influence with the British High Council has waned. You are the much-needed fresh blood that England needs to eliminate the scourge of spies, so that we may finally untangle these eras,” the Director stated.

There was no doubt in Robert's mind that this man, no matter if he was wearing one of those 'full-faced' masks or otherwise, he was Director Andre. Robert barely kept the urge to run and hide down – he was so close to a dangerous enemy, but yet, any sudden movements at this juncture would be fatal for him.

“You said so yourself in your manifesto, did you not?” the man continued, “That Washington has been blinded and put under a spell of the white-haired witch; and that he would lead not only the colonies, but the Empire to ruin?”

“I said as much,” Arnold seethed. “And you are a part of that problem.”

“I know I am,” the man genially answered, looking quite unruffled. “I am merely giving you advise on how to untangle the knot that has been created. It is up to you to follow through on that advice.”

Silence answered the Director's words. Robert thought that the two would part company then and there, unresolved in direction and heading for their next steps, but they didn't. Instead, Arnold asked after a few more moments of staring rather unkindly at the man, “Where is Mr. Mulligan's shop?”

“On Queen Street,” was the answer before a rather unkind smile appeared on the well-dressed man's face. “I also have a list of all known associates and spies, if you would like to see it, Spyhunter General Benedict Arnold.”

* * *

_New Haven..._

 

Anna jumped slightly as the back door to the tavern slammed close. Footsteps approached, but it was familiar footsteps as she looked up from packing the satchel with food to see her husband entering. There was a frustrated look on his face, as he silently shook his head at both her and Mary. Little Thomas continued to take the tiny piece of a potato that Mary had given him to play with, and mash it against the table that he was sitting on.

As her husband strolled into the front of the tavern, Anna placed her things down and followed him. “Selah,” she said, stopping between the threshold to the kitchen and front of the tavern. She watched him kneel down behind the bar and take the rifle that was stored there out. It was followed by the horn of gunpowder and a small satchel that was placed on the bartop.

“Either they're gone, or they just don't care,” Selah stated. “I couldn't find them anywhere. We're on our own.”

Anna wrung her hands for a moment, trying to not feel as despairing as her husband felt. Ever since the soldiers who had appeared with Abe's descendant, Mari, settled in New Haven, she and the others had rarely seen them at all. With Selah unable to even find a hide or hair of the non-English speaking soldiers from the future at the moment, she was extremely worried. As much as the city was still recovering from the attack by Govenor Tryon and his men over the winter, none of them wanted to subject the people here to more strangeness than what already governed their own lives.

“Maybe,” she began, “maybe they already know. Perhaps they're already going out to confront Simcoe and the Rangers.”

“Anna,” Selah began, putting down the rifle, powder, and musket balls as he came over and tightly embraced her. For one moment, she felt her worries melt away, as if her husband's arms and warm, comforting presence was completely able to shield her from the terror that was Simcoe and the Rangers with him. She felt him place a gentle kiss on her forehead before stepping back.

“Take the rifle and powder with you, Anna,” he stated, stepping back to take the rifle, powder, and satchel and giving it to her. Both you, Mrs. Woodhull, and her child should get to safety first. I have a few friends in New London. Go there for now. I'll stay behind to make it look like we're still all here.”

“But--” she began, protesting.

“Please don't argue,” he interrupted her, forcing her to take the rifle and its accessories from him. “If it is only Simcoe and his Rangers looking for Mrs. Arnold and the children, then that's that. If its not, then I'll join you in New London. We know that New Haven isn't safe anymore – it hasn't been since we arrived. I know now in just how high of a regard Major Tallmadge holds those within this Culper Ring, and how much his agents would sacrifice to see the British defeated.”

He gave her a sorrowful smile, saying, “I'm not going to let you die, Anna. I made a vow to protect you in sickness and in health, and I will keep that promise.”

~~~

_Near the outskirts of New Haven_

 

Five riders, three of them clad in the burnished metal armor that made them look like wraiths in the fog-wrapped woods, rode as swiftly as they could. However, the front most rider, riding a donkey of all beasts possible, suddenly halted, holding up a fist to halt the others following her. Caleb cautiously approached, nervously looking around him as he walked his robotic horse up to where Abe's descendant, Mari, was.

“See something?” he whispered. Nothing on his horse indicated anything, and there was nothing on the strange-looking thing that was popped out of the robotic donkey's neck that indicated anything else.

The young woman whispered something back, though since he wasn't versed in the language that the woman spoke in, it was up to Natalie to translate, as she answered in a low tone, “Something is not right. Mari's senses are picking up something, but the radar is not showing anything.” The woman then stated something to her before he saw Mari nod in agreement and tap a few things on the left side of her donkey's neck.

The air before them shimmered slightly before settling. Just as Caleb was about to speak up and ask about what had just happened around them, two horses emerged from the fog a few feet from their front left. The fog was still swirling in and around them, but even as soupy as it was, they could not near anything of the horses or their riders – only the occasionally caw of a bird or hum of an insect.

Caleb's eyes narrowed slightly though, as he quietly freed his right hand and let it stray to the hatchet he carried on the side of his belt. With his laser rifle destroyed during that assassination attempt on both Ben, Benji, and Benji's apparent brother William, he had been forced to return to using flintlocks. Against more conventional enemies, such as British forces, he was sure that his accuracy was improved since the laser rifle had taught him to be more accurate. However, against those people in the future... well, he hated being reduced to using flintlocks.

Especially since the two horses and their riders who had rode past them, completely ignoring their presence were wearing the cloths of a provincial force – Sheridan's Rangers.

“Shite,” he couldn't help but mutter after the Rangers were gone and those around him visibly relaxed their various holds on the weapons.

“They're probably everywhere, or at least in a perimeter around the city,” Carrie stated. “They must be waiting for some signal--”

She didn't even get to finish her words before a low and long sound that sounded like cross between a bee buzzing by and a whale's mating call sounded through the air. “Uh,” he began, “is that the signal?”

“Fuck if I know,” Carrie fired back. “All I know is that we need to get in there, stat!”

He heard Natalie say something to Abe's descendant, and a moment later, the air around them shimmered again. “When I say go, the three of you go. Don't look back, don't dawdle, and don't try to help Mari or I. We'll get you in, one way or another.”

Caleb frowned, but as he saw his counterpart and Andrew both holster their weapons, he did the same. It was better not to argue the points at the moment, especially when Anna and the others were in trouble. Both Anna's and Abe's descendants were still looking unwell, but both had grim looks in their eyes. He also didn't get a chance to voice his opinion when Natalie and Mari suddenly plunged their hands into the either side of their donkeys' necks. Both seemingly grasped some inner mechanism within their beasts and twisted something inside to activate what he could only describe as a transformation of sorts.

The donkeys' heads bent forward as the beasts split into parts, seemingly lifting its riders up into the air, triple or four times the height of himself. Both Mari and Natalie were also wrapped in an enclosing vessel of armor, similar to what the Turtle was shaped like, as 'legs' of sorts and 'arms' grew out from the folds of the donkeys. When the transformation was complete, Caleb could only gape at what stood before them, as did Andrew.

“What the shit?!” he heard Carrie exclaim. “The fuck did you guys pull this out of your asses – pun totally intended and not intended. How the fuck did your donkeys turn into mechas?!”

Despite the situation at hand, Caleb could not help but burst out laughing. Whatever these 'mechas' that Natalie and Mari had transformed their donkeys into, he could willingly bet that the Sheridan Rangers had never seen them before. Boy were those poor sods in for a great surprise.

~~~

_Fort West Point_

 

“What?” Ben heard Abe ask, seeing him blink in slight puzzlement.

“You're not freaking out,” Samantha stated, looking slightly surprised, taking the strange, small object that was laid out on the table from where Abe was sitting and passing it back to Sackett. Sackett gave the two an owlish look before picking up the tiny object and examined it, as if looking to see if it had been damaged.

“F-freaking out? What--”

“Ah, Major Tallmadge, good,” Ben heard Sackett interrupt whatever else Abe was about to protest. He saw his mentor place the thing that looked like a multi-leveled cylinder-like object that variated in shape and size, gently down onto the table. It was no bigger than the width of a palm of a hand, and no longer than from his tallest digit of his finger down to his wrist.

“So what's the big deal, Ben?” Abe asked, looking quite eager. “And where's Caleb?”

“There was intelligence that Townsend dropped early this morning that couldn't wait for him and some of the other agents we have here, to attend to. They're taking care of the issue,” he carefully answered, as he placed the stack of papers he had acquired from his request to Abe earlier in the year to try to clear Arnold's name from the land deeds, down. Pushing the stack forward towards Abe, he continued to say, “Our goal here is to figure out how to capture General Arnold and Director Andre.”

“Capture?!” Abe exclaimed. “Wouldn't it be much better for all of us if we at least assassinated Director Andre?”

“Yes,” he testily answered, “but as I have been told time and again, the Director cannot be killed. Would it be so simple, we would have. However, in the report that Townsend sent this morning, there was also a mention of Deputy Director Simcoe being alive – clearly sighted by our man on Long Island.”

He saw Abe pale, along with Samantha and Sackett's expressions turning grim and concerned. Continuing, he said, “Capture. That is what we need to do. Washington wants to make an example out of Arnold, and capturing Director Andre would make it easier for us to find the time transportation devices to separate these two eras.”

“They look like this,” Sackett spoke up, holding up the multi-leveled cylindrical object that he had seen being passed around earlier. “And considering where we found this particular one – embedded in Peter Sackett no less – it is reasonable to assume that the other two could very well be within the two assassins who killed your descendant, Mr. Woodhull.”

“You mean, the two who shot that poor woman, Abigail?” Abe asked, looking despondent. Ben silently nodded as he saw Samantha wring her hands nervously, while his counterpart immediately put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Do you know their names, Ben?” Abe asked.

“Yelena Sackett and Magdalena Alton-Tallmadge,” he quietly answered. “They're the mothers of Natalie and Samantha, respectively. Peter Sackett was Natalie's father. All three were known to be the best assassins in the world for their time.”

“Christ,” Abe softly stated a few moments later, rubbing his hand on his chin as he leaned back in his seat in shock, his eyes flickering back and forth from Sackett to Samantha.

“Ideas--” Ben began when it looked like his friend had nothing else to say, but didn't get to finish his request.

“I'll be bait,” Abe interrupted him.

“What?” he heard his counterpart ask, baffled.

“No look,” Abe said, as Ben saw an earnest look overtake his expression. Deciding not to chime in with his own thoughts, he heard Abe continue, saying, “Arnold asked me, Abraham Underhill, to help him with this land ownership issue in New Haven. I specifically traveled up to Springfield and to here to find Arnold. He's not here anymore. What if I find out that he's in NYC right now, and go a meet him there? I mean, even though New Haven is Patriot territory, the laws still apply – he will still have debt collectors after him. They certainly didn't discriminate when they were riding up and down Long Island.”

“And you want one of us to be a debt collector who goes with you?”

It had been Tallmadge who asked that question, though Abe threw him a rather dubious look before shaking his head. “It has to be someone else – someone from this era who knows the mannerisms of people this day and age. No offense, but your haircut also is a dead giveaway that you're not from this time, sir.”

“Ooooh,” Samantha chimed in, looking a little more gleeful than Ben liked. “Me, Benji, and some of the 2nd Light-Legions can be ambushers. We can definitely capture Arnold that way.”

Abe gestured towards Samantha, saying, “See... she's got the right idea.”

Ben mentally sighed. It was not the aftereffects of a good night's celebration or drinks that he knew was causing Abe's rather enthusiastic participation. It was the fact that Abe had decided to ditch hiding behind the facade of being a Tory sympathizer and openly declare himself a Patriot. It was only because the trial had not only opened his friend's eyes, but also his own to just how dangerous and convoluted things had become.

He didn't want to put Abe in danger, especially since he had not even told his friend that Mary and Thomas were currently being stalked ten miles out from New Haven by Captain Simcoe. Yet he also did not want to damper the lively spirit that Abe had – they needed that spirit to bolster their fighting. Otherwise, what were they all fighting for in this muddy mixing of the eras?

“And Director Andre?” he asked after a few moments.\

“Townsend and the other agents there must have a tracking of his movements, right?” Abe asked. “Simcoe, or at least the Deputy Director before whatever this person your man on Long Island saw, did.”

“You best not depend on the memories and things you've seen while in New York, Mr. Woodhull,” Sackett spoke up, seemingly casually examining the time devices. “We know not exactly what Deputy Director Simcoe was doing, or whether or not his aiding of this Ring and its associates was genuine.”

“Mr. Sackett is right,” Ben said, nodding in agreement with his mentor's word, before glancing over towards Samantha and his counterpart. “Anything, you two?”

“I suggest we concentrate on capturing Arnold for now,” his counterpart said. “Try to eliminate as many pieces that Andre could influence, now that West Point was a disaster, and Major Andre has defected partially because of it. The odds are stacking up against the Director and the more he tries to tighten his grasp, the more the British will slip through his fingers. The gazette article published by Arnold notwithstanding, capturing Arnold will probably blind Andre enough to make him stumble.”

“Suggestion noted,” he said, nodding before looking around the room. “Any other ones for the capture of General Arnold?”

“Come on, Ben,” Abe protested, “you know that mine is good. My cover as Underhill is still intact--”

“And what if Director Andre has already given Arnold a description of you, as yourself?” he challenged, staring directly at Abe. He needed to press it into his friend's thoughts that as much as he appreciated the robust defense that he had given during the trial, even with his declaration as a Patriot, Abe could no longer be sent behind enemy lines. He was too well known by those who worked as spies or controlled them.

Abe fell silent, looking unhappy, but it was Samantha who piped up, saying, “I might have an idea...”

~~~

_New Haven_

 

Anna stumbled as the _thonk thonk_ sounds, coupled with the familiar _pew-pew_ screamed through the air, setting not only houses, but even the wet grass around her on fire. It was smoky, foggy, and downright terrifyingly loud as Selah tugged on her hand and forced her to continue to run. Mary was running closely behind the two of them, clutching tightly onto Thomas. All around them, townspeople and militiamen were shouting for help, while the sounds of flintlocks were being fired at random intervals.

They could not stop, could not help the militia this time in the battle for New Haven. This was chaos – worse than Governor Tryon's attack on the city during the winter. There was no rhyme or reason for such an attack, as she caught glimpses of burnished metal-clad riders with their equally covered and dark horses that looked like the Devil and his acolytes, flitting in and out of the fog and smoke. At the same time, she also caught glimpses of metal-like men, taller than she could ever imagine – giants in the playground. Those tall metal bi-pedal things were stomping around, attacking the Rangers. Some were firing similar guns that she remembered Ben calling 'Gatlings' back in Setauket, while other metal giants were firing the strangest-looking bullets that glowed violet in color and created the _thonk thonk_ sound.

She mentally said a few oaths in her mind, hoping and praying that God would forgive her indiscretion with words that certainly were not meant to be uttered, even now. How Ben and the others had survived fighting under such conditions, especially with the rumors she had heard about Fort West Point, was baffling. She could barely believe that she was bearing witness to this – and prayed that she, along with Selah, Mary, and little Thomas, survived.

~~~

Caleb had initially laughed so much and so hard that his belly hurt, but there was no such laughter now. In the wake of the unexpected appearance of giant metal warriors, as he decided to call them, instead of 'mechas', the destruction being rendered to New Haven by the fierce fighting was absolutely terrifying. The Sheridan's Rangers were clad in similar burnished armor that looked similar to the ones he, Carrie, and Andrew were clad in – except that it was blue-grey in color. The Third Section were clad in the same mechanical giants as Natalie and Mari, the coloring of the metal that covered them silver-grey – matching the smoke and fog they were using as both cover and ambush.

As he heard his own breaths, huffing slightly with the burnished black armor he wore, he nudged his horse this way and that, following Andrew, who led the way. The agent was using the knotting feeling in his chest to seek out Anna and Selah, and he hoped that Abe's wife would be with the two. They cantered down the main street, full of burning buildings, passing by civilians and militiamen alike who by now, were just running for their lives instead of fighting. Caleb didn't blame them, but as much as he wanted to go help them escape to safety, he had to be selfish and save the others of the Ring first.

Smoke and fog parted for a brief moment, allowing Caleb to catch a glimpse of the strangest sight in the middle of the Green. One metal giant was dancing this way and that, swinging its arms as if it were in a frenzy. There were two Sheridan Rangers, not clad in their armor or riding their horses, upon the metal giant. One was positioned near the shoulder of the giant, shooting its laser rifle into the shoulder, trying to break through the armor. The other was swinging back and forth on a rope-line of sorts between the front and back, occasionally flitting around with its laser rifle, as if it were a fly.

If that were not a sight to behold, Caleb also saw another Ranger riding in on its red-eyed steed. He saw something thick, black, and rope-like shoot from the oncoming rider, and attach onto the lower portion of the metal giant's legs. As soon as he realized what was happening, the Ranger had already looped the thick rope once around the legs of the giant – the three Rangers were trying to topple the 'mecha'.

Activating the sword that came with the armor, he made to charge at the Rangers, knowing that if they toppled the giant, whomever was inside of it could easily be crushed or killed by such a fall within its armor. “No!” he heard Carrie shout, her voice tinged with a tinny sound that blasted into his ears. “They're meant to distract the enemy. That is their sole purpose as to why Ben had Mari order them here. We need to get to Woodhull and the others!”

He growled in frustration but pushed on past the Green. They skirted into the main market row before galloping through and onto the docks area. As their hooves clattered on the wooden planks, bereft of any boats big or small, he heard an almighty crash in front of them. Out of the smoke and fog came several Rangers, barreling towards them. They were not shooting at the three of them, but rather seemed to be running away from something.

That something emerged from the thick soup not a moment later, and Caleb let loose an extremely heartfelt expletive as another metal giant stomped and stamped its way through. Rangers and their robotic horses were crushed underfoot, the noise grating upon his ears. He yanked his horse towards the left following Andrew closely as he dodged a flying piece of a crushed piece, as Carrie tore to the right. Ducking and yanking his horse to the right as the metal giant swung its arms and fired several rounds from its finger-tipped Gatlings, he resisted the urge to speed his horse up.

With just how confined the city was, any sort of increase in speed would prove deadly to him; with his death most likely being planted face or body-first into a wall. Instead, the flecks of heated metal pinged off the armor he wore, telling him that he couldn't do a thing. The screams of the dying assaulted his ears, but he pushed on.

Soon, the three of them cleared the crazed battle at the docks, reuniting as none of them looked any worse for wear. As they approached the Bulldog's Tavern, he saw that the lights were doused, and that the place was one of the few buildings that had not yet been demolished by the ongoing fighting. Andrew continued onwards, but did not lead them out of the city – instead, they took a sharp left that brought them into the main road leading up to Yale.

He could see that the main gates to the school were closed, but the school was the only place where the destruction rendered to the port city was untouched thus far. It seemed that it was also where many of the civilians were taking shelter, for as the three of them approached, he saw several curious urchins who were behind the gates run away from the front of the gates.

“Disarm,” he heard Andrew curtly order.

It was risky and foolhardy, but if Anna, Selah, Mary, and little Thomas had taken shelter in there, then at least the he and the others didn't have to find them in the insane battlefield that was New Haven. Pressing the button that allowed the armor to retract, he dismounted his horse, and followed the agent's lead in cubing the horse up. Withdrawing his pistol and holding it up with caution, he and the others approached the gates.

“Hey!” he called out, as the buildings within the college stood silent as the calm, windless sea. “Anybody there?”

“We're friendlies! We're not here to kill anyone!” Carrie chimed in, though her words earned a glare from Andrew.

“I'm sure you all are,” a new yet familiar voice, nasal in tone and pitched high to be slightly annoying to his ears, stated from behind him.

“Duck!” he heard Carrie shout, just before the wind was knocked out of him as he was tackled from the right by her.

Toppling to the ground, several shots from a laser rifle peppered the area where his head used to be as he heard Carrie cry out in pain. Scrambling and turning to get into cover behind an overturned wagon with a mound of cabbage, he saw that she was clutching at her side. “Carrie!” he shouted, as he drew up his pistols and sighted down both of them, only to see who was approaching from the swirling fog.

Simcoe, along with Rogers, Creighton,, and an unknown woman were approaching, bereft of their horses, and of the armor that he knew he had seen Simcoe wear on the robotic horse, back during the burning of Danbury. He saw Creighton's eyes widen just a small amount, and the flintlock rifle he was holding, waver ever so slightly. Rogers had nothing on his expression, but was also holding a laser rifle. He wasn't sure, but he had to assume that it was Simcoe was the one who had tried to take a shot at them, managing to hit Carrie when she had pushed him, Caleb, out of the way. Rogers was on the Patriot side, right?

As for the unknown woman, she was wearing the black BDUs with a feathered cap on her head. Though severe-looking, there was an unusually fascinating beauty about her – especially with how the light wind picked up the strands of her hair and blew it this way and that. Though considering how old she looked under that strangely beautiful face, Caleb could only guess that she was most likely the leader of the Sheridan Rangers – Commandant Sheridan herself.

“Strong! Go! That's an order! Get them out of here! I'll hold them back,” he shouted, as he leapt from his hiding place and fired off both pistols right at Simcoe and the woman.

Dropping both pistols as he heard Andrew scale the closed fence, he immediately grabbed and tugged on Carrie's uniform collar, while pulling out his double-barreled blunderbuss. While it was supposed to be fired with both hands on the gun, he didn't even bother holding it so. Before Simcoe and the woman, or Creighton and Rogers for the matter, could fire at him again, he fired the weapon and dragged Carrie with all of his might, and into another small cover.

Breathing heavily, he glanced down to see pain etched upon his descendant's face. His heart ached for how much agony she must have been going through, as he looked towards where she was clutching her side. Bracing himself against the overturned carriage that they had taken shelter against, he knew that there would only be a few moments before it would be turned into kindling.

“Lord, please have mercy on mine and Carrie's soul,” he whispered.

~~~

The deep breaths that Anna had been taking to calm herself were not working – nothing she was doing to ease her fear and shock at the utter savage destruction that laid before the port city they had called home for the past year. The shelter that she, Selah, Mary and her child had taken here at Yale was the only place in the city that had not yet been trampled or destroyed yet. Nevertheless, it was the sudden shouts, clearly hear, but unable to be discerned as to what was said, that brought her and the other townsfolk taking shelter here, towards the window.

Pushing Selah's protective arm aside, she peeked out of the side of the nearest window, and heard someone shout something before seeing the more curious and brave urchins who had escaped to this place dash away from the newly wrought gate entrance. That gate had been erected only a few weeks ago, but a few minutes later, she saw the tell-tale sign of the strange blue shots, along with the _pew-pew-pew_ sound, cut through the air.

“Get back!” she heard Selah say, and tore herself away from the window, just as she saw her husband bring his rifle to bear, butt raised and ready to break through the window so that he had a clear shot at whomever was approaching.

Tense moments passed that turned into even longer seconds, and yet her husband still did not break the window. “Stay here,” her husband suddenly stated before seeing him scramble from the window and dash out of the room.

“Selah!” she shouted, catching Mary's confused look, as they and others within the room stared at the spot that Selah had vacated.

Her husband appeared back into the entrance not a few moments later, whispering, “Anna, come on! Mrs. Woodhull, you and Thomas as well!”

Puzzled, but sensing that he was not as panicked as he had been earlier, she rose up, but kept her self crouched low as possible so that she would not be seen through the window. There was no doubt in her mind that British marksmen were most likely with Simcoe and the Rangers he commanded.

Guiding Mary who clutched Thomas to her out first, when they emerged out into the hall, she fully stood up with a brick wall now between her and the outlying room. To her surprise, Andrew was standing near the top of the stairs. “Andrew!” she said, approaching and embraced him tightly. “Thank God! Did Ben send you?”

“Yeah,” her great-something grandson said, nodding as she pulled back. “I have to get all of you out now. Follow me, I think I know a path to get us away from what's happening near the center.”

“But what about the others here?” Mary asked before they could make their way down the stairs. “They can't--”

“I'm sorry, but my orders are to get all of you to safety,” Andrew stated, his demeanor and tone becoming cold. “I don't have enough firepower to hold off any enemies and protect all of you at the same time. We have to go now!”

“Whomever Tallmadge also sent with you are already providing distractions, aren't they?” Selah quietly spoke up.

“Yes,” the agent stated, the coldness in his tone lessening for just a moment.

As much as Anna didn't want any of Andrew's friends, or whomever else Ben had sent to rescue them to remain behind, she knew that there was no argument she or the others could make to convince Andrew otherwise. Silently nodding, she reached for Selah's hand, and together, they made their way down the stairs and towards safety.

* * *

_Fort West Point_

 

It was not quite dusk yet when the clatter and noisy commotion, along with Jefferson bursting into the tent, exclaiming, “They're back!” sent Ben and the others rushing out.

The clatter of a horse and cart halted right near Sackett's tent, as Ben saw that it was Andrew's robotic horse that had dragged the rickety-looking cart into camp. Four people were sitting on the cart, looking quite soot-covered, harried, but uninjured. No other persons were following the horse and cart. However, Abe immediately pushed past him, saying, “Mary? What are you doing here?”

Stepping up, Ben immediately said, “New Haven wasn't safe anymore, so I had Andrew, Caleb, Carrie, and Natalie escort them out.”

He caught Abe's annoyed yet grateful look that was thrown towards him, knowing that Abe would most likely have words later with him with regards to him, Ben, not telling Abe about the danger his family faced. As his friend busied himself with helping Mary and Thomas down, Ben approached Selah and Anna's descendant.

“Report, Agent Strong,” he stated, as Jefferson and Samantha went to go help unhitch the wagon, while his counterpart escorted the escapees, and Abe into the tent. Sackett was not present, but Ben paid his mentor no heed – he could always brief him later.

“Sir, I regret to report that I was ordered to leave and complete the mission by Lieutenant Caleb Brewster after Lieutenant Carrie Brewster had been shot by Simcoe. In addition to Simcoe, I saw Lieutenant Creighton and Robert Rogers with him. There was also a woman, older looking and wearing the black uniform and cap of the Rangers. I know not where Agents Sackett and Woodhull currently are. Both of them had activated some sort of transformation within their robotic donkeys that enabled the three of us to get into New Haven. To my best knowledge, the whereabouts of the estimated sixty-strong Sheridan's Rangers forces and the Third Section are also unknown. New Haven has all but been burned down by the fighting between the two forces,” the agent reported with little to no emotional inflection in his tone.

“The woman with Simcoe and the others, describe her,” his counterpart interrupted and stepped in. There was a keen look in his counterpart's eyes – one that Ben did not like.

“Greying hair, severe-looking, with a sharp angular chin and high cheekbones. Stands about six feet tall--” Strong began.

“Shit, that's Commandant Sheridan herself,” he heard his counterpart softly curse. “Rogers would have had to maintain his cover – he would have had to shoot at either Brewsters if ordered.”

“So would Creighton,” he agreed.

“Sir, Lieutenant Carrie Brewster was also wounded, last I left the two,” Strong spoke up. “She had pushed her ancestor out of the line of fire.”

Silence hung between the three of them, as Ben glanced up to see that both Jefferson and Samantha had listened into their conversation. Jefferson had a blank expression upon his face, but there was worry swimming in the black man's eyes. “We have to get them back,” Ben said, loud enough for the other two to hear as he saw Samantha press the robotic horse's left ear to make it shrink back into its storage cube.

Samantha picked up the cube before she and Jefferson approached, and the circle grew a little wider. “They're alive,” he said, trying to feel confident in his words. He refused to believe that Caleb or Caleb's descendant were dead. He also knew that he could not worry as to where Natalie and Abe's descendant were.

“They're still alive,” he repeated, catching each and every person standing in the circle's eyes. “We're going to find them, rescue them, and bring them home. All of them.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Call it Star Wars AT-AT cable-loop toppling from Empire Strikes Back, tripping a Gundam, or Attack on Titan crash, I've been waiting for ~2.5 years to write those transformations of the robotic donkeys into their final forms: mechas. ^_^
> 
> In other news, I will also be inconsistently updating this fic, mainly because of real-life happenings (vacation and a relocation). Being accepted into grad school to work on real-life robots does that as well... If you wish to receive notification of updates, please subscribe - AO3 will send an email to you whenever this fic is updated.


	33. I Didn't Sign Up For This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 19 July 2017 - I'm back from a much-needed vacation. Apologies for any grammatical or spelling errors; this chapter was written over the course of the vacation.

**Chapter 33: I Didn't Sign Up For This**

_Fort West Point_

 

“Why don't we just offer to trade this Major Andre for Caleb and Carrie? I mean, surely he's worth both of their lives?”

Eyes and heads swiveled towards Mary Woodhull, some in surprise, while others in curiosity. However, Ben and a couple of others around the table had managed to reign in their surprise at the suggestion from the most unexpected person. He had to admit to himself that what Abe's wife had suggested was a brilliant idea, but it was most definitely not viable. As much as he wanted to get the Brewsters-two back unscathed, Washington would not allow such a valuable defector to be traded for either one.

In the eyes of the Army as a whole, he was well aware that Caleb and his descendant were not valuable, no matter how much Ben wished it to be. It was also the reason why he had not yet spoken or informed his commander about the situation in New Haven. He knew that he should have, but the fact that the Brewsters-two were captured and he hoped, were still alive, meant that immediate actions needed to be taken. He could not wait for his commander to deliberate on actions. The survival of the Culper-Culpeper Ring members were already in fraught waters.

Before he could speak up to voice the negative to that proposal, Abe, inspired by his wife's brilliant suggestion, said, “That could work in parallel to the legal documents that Arnold still needs to review about his properties in New Haven--”

“Which have most likely all been destroyed at this point, Woodhull,” Selah's sharp tone interrupted Abe. “The entire port and its surroundings were burning by the time we made it out of there. It's all gone. New Haven is gone.”

“Bye, bye Pepe's pizzeria and Ikea...” Samantha softly stated, though Ben wasn't sure if it was an attempt at levity or not.

“He still owns the lands, whether or not they have been destroyed,” Abe immediately countered. “There is no way around that legality.”

“Enough,” Ben forcefully stated, placing his hands out between the two who sat on opposite sides of the table. Though he suspected that the tension between Abe and Selah stemmed from a part of the fact that there had been rumors between Anna and Abe engaging in an adulterous relationship, he did not need his two friends peripherally arguing with each other.

Catching the eyes of all of those who sat in this tent, except for Mr. Sackett who was giving everyone around the table a mild look, he said, “We cannot trade Major Andre. General Washington will not allow it. We need eyes and ears on where the Brewsters-two are – for all we know they could be in the heart of New York City.”

“If Caleb and Carrie don't admit to spying, they cannot hang, is that correct?” Anna spoke up.

“They can be brought up on false charges, especially if Director Andre has various means available to make them confess to falsities,” Samantha quietly stated, as her cousin gave her a reassuring pat on her hands. Ben knew what she was referring to, and could only imagine what else she had suffered from while in the hands of the Director in Philadelphia. He had experienced some of that torture himself, but it seemed that Samantha was still healing from her mental scars of that time.

“If they are in the city, smuggling anyone new in would not be the wisest of choices, sir,” Andrew said after a few moments of silence.

“But it may be our only option,” he answered. “Abe, if you could write your father to see what the situation is on Long Island, especially with the reappearance of Deputy Director Simcoe, perhaps we can find out if your father still has business dealings with Colonel Cook. We could build a false bottom into a supply wagon and smuggle myself and possibly another agent that way.”

“Ben, it's not going to work,” Samantha said, shaking her head. “They've tightened the checkpoints from Sag Harbor to the Ferry. It had been extremely difficult to get the Hattersfield twins into the city last year.”

“Okay,” he said, holding back the sigh he wanted to release.

“How about we revisit a trade?” he heard his counterpart suggest after another few moments of contemplative silence. “But instead of Major Andre, why don't we trade a certain loyal son of Britannia? Or rather, a certain loyal son of the Sheridan's Rangers.”

There were a few puzzled glances thrown at his counterpart, but as Ben's frown turned into a considering look, he blinked a couple of times. “It could work...” he murmured.

“Respectfully, sir,” Andrew spoke up, “I'm not convinced that trading Captain Tallmadge would be wise.”

“Captain Tallmadge?” Anna asked, as she, along with Selah and Mrs. Woodhull wore puzzled looks.

“Captain William Tallmadge,” Ben heard his counterpart clarify, “my brother and a member of the Sheridan's Rangers. He was captured during the assault on West Point. He is also greatly favored by our mother, Commandant Sheridan, leader of that Ranger group. It's a trade that she will be sure not to ignore. He's worth more to her than Caleb and Carrie combined.”

“And how sure are you of that, Major Tallmadge?” Anna asked, arching an eyebrow, looking unsure. “The Rangers were, after all, hunting us and attacking New Haven. Given that we do not know their current whereabouts, nor of this Third Section group that we have been told were supposed to protect us, Director Andre may not even willing to trade.”

“It's Mister now, Mrs. Strong,” Tallmadge answered. “I resigned my commission and office, but I digress. To answer your question, yes, there is a risk that the Commandant may have disappeared with the rest of her Rangers to parts unknown, but I'm relatively confident that she hasn't. She is a geneticist, someone who can manipulate the building blocks of life – change and create deadly plagues or cures. The Director knew that she was building a serum, a biological illness of sorts to kill Lieutenant General Washington. She would have most likely informed him that it had gone missing the moment West Point was taken. He'll want another one created, and given how decimated her Rangers are, she's going to be working with him. She will want all the allies she can get while working with Director Andre – William had been that loyal ally.”

He saw Tallmadge lean forward slightly, arms on the table and hunched over, as he continued to say, “We dangle William in front of her, offer a trade for Carrie and Caleb, and she might just have enough influence to strong-arm the Director into making that trade. Or if we have a good stroke of luck, she'll smuggle our two Brewsters back to friendly lines in exchange for William.”

“If I may suggest,” Anna began, nodding once, though Ben wasn't sure if she was agreeing with the point or just in understanding. “Perhaps adding some monetary value to the trade would be wise. It is a one-for-one trade. With the flooding of Director Simcoe's laboratory, would she not have to use materials from this era to create this... serum?”

“How much do you suggest, Anna?” Ben asked, knowing that despite his distaste at adding monetary value, there was a good chance that the Britannians and British – if they were still allied with Britannia – would make them choose on a one-to-one trade. He did not want another Lower Alloways Township incident to happen again, especially not with his best friend's life on the line.

Instead of immediately answering, he saw her glance over at Selah who didn't look happy but nevertheless, nodded. “We have three hundred pounds that we can offer.”

“That is nearly the amount we have thus spent to have Mr. Alton-Tallmadge modify the serum,” Sackett stated, nodding. “It may just be enough.”

“Keep the money with you, Anna, Selah,” Ben said, shaking his head slightly. He would be damned if he did not find his own way to come up with three hundred pounds himself. “You'll need that to resettle wherever the two of you will go. I'll find another way to come up with the three hundred pounds.”

“What if we didn't have to, Ben?” Abe spoke up again, before tapping on the folio full of documents and the like that was supposed to have been delivered to Arnold. “You'll want the exchange to happen in neutral territory, yeah? What if we kidnap Arnold, using these documents and my cover as a lure for him – before the exchange happens? Then we have two people to trade instead of one. Think about it!”

“Abraham!” Mrs. Woodhull said, her expression that of slight horror. “It is as Major Tallmadge said: your cover--”

“No,” Ben spoke up, his thoughts diving from contemplative and back into the well of ideas that he had initially discarded. “No... that's not bad...”

“Kidnapping General Arnold is not bad?” Abe's wife exclaimed, though it did not escape Ben's notice that both Anna and Samantha had concerned looks in their eyes. Out of everyone in the room though, Andrew was the only one who was openly smirking at the bold plan.

“It's already too dangerous to send you back to Setauket or New York, but this might be our only chance to lure Arnold out,” he said, as Abe looked slightly pleased that his plan was being put to words. “We'll force them to trade for the Brewsters-two, but we'll need to get friendlies to go with Arnold if he responds to the summons.”

“I can try to sneak back in tonight,” Samantha spoke up, her tone chirpy, but there was a seriousness in her eyes. “Pass along whatever message Mr. Woodhull has here, recruit Creighton and Rogers to help, and try to confirm if Caleb and Carrie are still alive.”

“I'll draw up the summons and add something about New Haven burning--”

“I'd caution against that, Woodhull,” Tallmadge spoke up. “New Haven is still fresh news, and per your story, you've been at Springfield. News still does travel slowly throughout the region, now that battle season is upon us again.”

Ben saw Abe nod. Sensing that his friend's confidence was back again, he cautioned, “If we pull this off, you'll have to look like the injured party as well, Abe. It's the only way we can sow the seed of doubt that Director Andre may have put into Arnold's thoughts about Abraham Underhill and you.”

“You're both fools,” he heard Mrs. Woodhull state with a resigned look upon her.

“Mary,” Abe began, spreading his arms out slightly, gesturing towards everyone else in the room. “This is a play – one that begets a right.”

Doubt still swam in her eyes, and though she had lived through the same horrors that he had lived through during the winter attack on New Haven, Ben hoped his words would convince Mrs. Woodhull otherwise. Abe was lucky to have such support from his wife – someone who knew how much was sacrificed in this war, especially in the shadows. He, Ben, himself knew that he would not; not after they untangled the eras. Natalie could not stay and as much as his heart panged at the moment to want to go send scouts to try to find her, he knew that he couldn't waste resources. He had to hope that she was still alive – as were the others of the Third Section.

“I will see it through, Mrs. Woodhull,” he said, mustering all the confidence in his tone. “Personally.”

* * *

_New York City_

 

“Ah, look at the missus, arriving home after a fully day's worth of errands.”

Robert Townsend ignored the crunch of the former Queen's Rangers, Robert Rogers biting into an apple that had apparently made it through the winter without becoming mealy. He hadn't bit into his own, but whoever had preserved the apple had done an incredible job – it looked as fresh as the day it was picked. His stomach growled slightly, but he ignored it for now.

The alleyway that he, along with the young Continental Army Lieutenant Stephen Creighton, Robert Rogers, and young Leigh Hattersfield, was the nearest alleyway they could position themselves in. Under the cover of the thick horse blankets that both Rogers and Creighton had draped over themselves, they all looked like scallywags just staring at the finer and richer men and women of the city passing by. Though Samantha Tallmadge's voice droned in his head about not gathering together frequently, it was precisely because of what happened in New Haven that they were gathered now.

Robert knew that Rogers had no care for any of them, having stated rather vehemently once to him that the only reason why he was doing this was because the Rangers were his to command, not Simcoe's. Though that had no bearing on the moment now, he did wonder what the Ranger's motivations were, for carefully observing the comings and goings of those who lived in the Arnold household. Perhaps the man had an interest in the nightmarish description about giants stomping around New Haven and wanted to see what Arnold would make of it upon receiving the news.

“Ugh, what did I tell you about gathering in a group?” a familiar, feminine voice suddenly stated in a loud, whispering tone from behind them.

“Well, if you would have been quieter on your approach here, little lady, then perhaps I would have dispersed them before you could,” Rogers said, as the four of them turned around to see Samantha standing at the other end of the alleyway, hands on her hips. She looked thoroughly annoyed, but Rogers continued to say, “But you're not here to give these lads and lady a lecture, are you. You're here about New Haven.”

“Damn straight I am,” the future-agent countered, before gesturing for them to follow her. “Come on, Mrs. Arnold obviously has brought some new things to supplement whatever they need in the household. No one is going to visit them for the moment – not especially with the fact that Arnold is a known tightwad since getting into deep debt. He has not been paid for his lack of achievement in trying to give up West Point.”

“Is this about 725, both of them?” Robert quietly asked as he saw Creighton gently reach out to give young Hattersfield a comforting squeeze of her shoulder as the four of them followed the future agent away from their observation post. He had not asked what Hattersfield had suffered through, but had merely held the woman as he had done for his father whenever either broke down crying due to grief. It was obvious from the lack of the presence of the young woman's brother that he had been killed at West Point.

“Yes. There's a plan in the works,” the future agent said, turning her head slightly. “It will require all of your help and participation in it. With Britannian forces now in and around the city, it will be dangerous, possibly even more so than what any of you have faced thus far. Do I have it?”

Robert nodded, but also verbally vocalized his assent. Rogers merely grunted in agreement, while Creighton stated his confirmation. The only quiet, reluctant one came from Hattersfield, but Robert felt himself being torn by the fact that the young woman was still willing to participate in the Ring. He had hoped that perhaps the future agent would take pity on Hattersfield and repatriate her to Philadelphia.

Alas, it seemed that the Lord still required all of them to sacrifice body, mind, and spirit to defeat these British and Britannians in order to win their freedom.

~~~

“Twenty-seven pounds?!”

Peggy dared not thin her lips in displeasure as she saw her husband look up from the papers that were laid out before him on the table. “We did not have time to pack everything, Benedict,” she explained. “Captain Simcoe was insistent that we leave quickly. Your children must have the bare necessities, if they are to live in the station they are now beholden to. Appearances must be kept so that we may remain in the social circles that your Generalship grants us.”

“It is a demotion! From Major-General of the Continental Army to a mere Brigadier in the British Army!” her husband raged. He did not get to further his tirade against the amount of money she had spent the entire day, just to find good-fitting clothes and three simple toys to keep the young boys entertained.

The knock at the door was swift and loud, and not a moment later, a courier's voice was heard, saying, “Letter for General Benedict Arnold.”

Their servant, Zipporah, bustled through from the kitchen and made her way down the hall. The door was opened for a moment before closing again and not a few seconds after that, Zipporah appeared, extending the letter out. She saw her husband roughly snatch it from their servant's hands and turn towards the fireplace behind him to open and read the letter.

Dismissing their servant with a wave of her hand, Peggy approached from the left side of the table. She saw a clear frown appear on her husband's face, but not a moment later, he growled, “Damn them.” He balled up the letter before throwing it into the fire.

“What?” she asked. “What happened?”

“New Haven is all but burnt, but news hasn't even gotten to that clerk, Underhill, that I had tasked to work on the land deeds!” he answered, frustration taking over his countenance.

“New Haven is...” she began, somehow finding the nearest seat at the side of the table to sit upon. That meant that those of the spy ring, the ones that Creighton, who had delivered Benedict's son to New Haven, knew... had they been successful in escaping? She hoped they had been, even though she wanted nothing more to do with this spying business, and had hoped that her last letters to Boston over the past winter would be the end of her contributions.

“Burned, gone,” he said, turning back towards the fire. “Simcoe had done right in insisting that you and my sons get out as soon as possible. Underhill had been in Springfield and was looking for me. I must go and meet him--”

“Why not just send a letter to him, Benedict?” she asked, feeling uneasy at the prospect of her husband going off somewhere to meet Abraham Underhill, or otherwise as she knew him as one of the many spies working specifically for Major Tallmadge.

She knew that she could have easily told her husband about Underhill, could have easily revealed a few descriptions and names of the other spies, but she didn't. She wanted to wash her hands of that business, especially with the reappearance of Director John Andre, who had met both her, the children, and Simcoe when they had crossed into the city proper. The Director hadn't even given her a look or time of day, and she knew then that she had truly been 'discarded' as she remembered one of Major Tallmadge's spies in Philadelphia saying.

If she told her husband about Underhill or the other agents in New Haven, she knew that she would be pulled back into the sordid business. Her husband was, after all, the Spyhunter General as well, and would not hesitate to exploit everything and anything to get what she knew he wanted – retribution against every wrong against him. The kind, brave soul that she had fallen in love with, barely existed anymore, and she hated the glimmer of regret that was crawling around her heart. If only she had not been at that party in Philadelphia...

“Would it be so easy,” her husband's acerbic tone shook her out of her musings. “No, by now, the news would be bad, and even if Underhill had not heard of what happened to New Haven, he would be traveling with at least one debt collector. The lands cannot be salvaged and can now be sold to the British or Continentals. I must meet with him to settle the accounts.”

“Where will you be going and how long will you be absent, Benedict?” she asked.

“I shan't be long. About a week at the most,” he answered. “I leave tomorrow morning for Westchester.”

* * *

_Fort West Point, early next morning..._

 

Ben resisted the urge to groan out loud as he recounted the coins stacked upon his tiny desk. He only managed to scrounge up a pittance amount, compared to the three hundred pounds he needed as a secondary plan, should the capture of Arnold fail. Sliding the coins into a pouch, he knew that he could not go to Washington and ask him to spare coin in this endeavor. They were all waiting on back pay anyways, and no miracle was going to get Congress to pass out Stirling or Continental Dollars in the next few minutes.

“Sir, may I enter?” he heard the footsteps and voice of Andrew at the entrance to his tent.

“Yes,” he answered. He would have to find some other way to get to three hundred, or hope to God that their trap for Arnold did work.

The agent came in and before Ben could stop him, a pouch of coins was dropped on his desk. “We took up a collection, sir,” the agent stated lightly without preamble. “Most of us felt that it shouldn't be left up to you to field the coins for Caleb and Carrie's retrieval, if the Arnold thing doesn't work, so yeah...”

Ben gritted his teeth; as much as he wanted to refuse the contribution, he knew that doing so would be extremely rude, petty, and frankly not wise. Picking up the pouch, it was heavier than he had expected and he peered inside of it. Among the British coins that were in it, there were also two robotic horse cubes. “How much is in here?” he asked, looking back up.

“About five hundred pounds, sir,” the agent stated, this time openly grinning. “That includes the estimated value of the robotic horses, which we think Commandant Sheridan would probably want in trade. We hope its enough to barter and get our two hedgehogs of huffy and snorting joy back.”

He blinked in utter surprise, ignoring the comparison quip about the Brewsters-two to hedgehogs. “This... this should be more than enough, Agent Strong. Please convey my gratitude to the men and women who contributed.”

* * *

_Later, in Westchester, New York_

 

“Abe, relax.”

Abe tore his gaze away from the window to the inn that he and Ben were sitting in. The air was saturated with the smoke of tobacco, along with the sounds of laughter, conversations, and someone playing a jaunty tune on a rather off-tuned fiddle. The swirls of dresses from the bar maids serving their patrons around the inn brightened the area, but he was not paying attention to them and their ample assets they teased to many a patrons.

“Easy for you to say, Ben,” he murmured as he saw his friend slouch down a little further in his seat, tipping his hat slightly forward as one of the bar maids bustled by, carrying two pitchers of ale, along with a full tray of food. Their own food was occasionally touched for the sake of appearances, but he really had no appetite at the moment.

The satchel he carried that contained the documents was by his side, but he tried not to look at it or back out of the window. He knew that his nervousness at what was going to happen when General Arnold arrive was making Ben annoyed, but he could not help it. If Arnold arrived with reinforcements or a complement of soldiers, there were plenty of things he could say and do to keep Arnold occupied until the soldiers were subdued, but Westchester was more civilian than military. It was also home to a good mix of Tory and Whig leaning citizens, much like Setauket had been. Though because of it's location – between the southern coastal towns of Connecticut, along with the northern occupied lands of the Continental, and its proximity to New York City – it was considered no-man's land.

It was the perfect place for him to meet Arnold, but if fighting broke out between the small amount of hidden Continental forces of the 2nd Light that Ben had brought with him, and Arnold's forces, Abe wasn't sure what the citizens of Westchester would do. There were no forces from the 2nd Legionnaires with them, and after hearing what had happened to New Haven, he was glad that Ben did not bring the forces from the future with him.

Following Arnold's scathing publication of the future forces, Abe had read more opinions in the gazettes – both British and Continental ones – about the rally call to oust the future forces. Half of them were in support of forces that would help turn the tide in the war on either side, the other half were mainly civilian voices calling for a stop to the destruction of life and property on either side. The fight for America's immediate future was becoming more and more convoluted. It didn't take schooling to see that a second rebellion within no-man's land, such as Westchester, would spell disaster.

“Arnold will arrive when he arrives,” Ben stated. “When he does, you'll be ready.”

The quip was on the tip of his tongue, but movement outside of the inn caught his attention. Glancing back out, he saw General Arnold in his blood-red British uniform, halting his horse. “He's here,” he spoke up. “Can't see anyone with him from my view.”

That was Ben's cue to temporarily leave, though he did notice his friend getting up with a relaxed air about him. As Ben took the mug of ale, along with the plate of food away from the table, making it look like Abe had been sitting alone for a while, Abe kept his eyes as casually as he could on the window. He occasionally flicked them towards the entrance. Ben was going to make himself scarce for a few minutes, not only to scout out the area to make sure that Arnold didn't have anyone else with him, but to also give him, Abe, a chance to convince Arnold to stay and discuss the land deeds.

Arnold entered the inn a few moments later, and in response to the brief looking around from the General, Abe lifted a hand and gave a short wave. The man spotted his movement and made his way towards him, though it did not escape Abe's notice that Arnold was turning a lot of heads with his bearing, stride, and uniform. Thankfully, most of the looks that the General was receiving were mild curiosity, and not openly hostile looks. It was a little odd to see a British General in uniform in a place like this, when Abe suspected that the locals were more prone to see provincial forces from either side.

Abe stood up as Arnold stopped, and held out a hand. It was engulfed in Arnold's larger hand and shaken as Abe said, “General Arnold, I'm... surprised...to see you... um...”

“Never mind the uniform, Underhill. My name hasn't changed,” Arnold stated in a tone that wasn't quite snappish but almost akin to it as he let go of Abe's hand and sat. Abe resisted the urge to shake out his hand and sat as well. At once, a bar maid bustled over, and Arnold ordered an ale, though his eyes were already straying over to the folio of paper that sat on the table next to Abe's food.

Abe waited until the ale was served before saying, “I was hoping to catch you in Springfield.” He patted the folio beside him, but discreetly slid it a little away when he saw Arnold try to attempt to reach for it. “These are the documentations with regards to the purchase and ownership that I could find, leading up to your sister's purchase of the lands on behalf of you--”

“New Haven is gone, Underhill,” Arnold cut in rather rudely and brusquely. “It was burnt to the ground not a few days ago. I need you to draw up the terms of sale to interested parties, now that the land cannot be salvaged.”

“Uh, pardon?” he asked, feigning surprise, which was not hard to do – all he had to think about was his reaction to Mary and Thomas's harrowing escape from the city. Not to mention his disbelief about giants stomping in New Haven during their escape. “I had not read it in the gazettes--”

“My apologies, but I do not know if your family made escaped as the city burned,” Arnold interrupted him. “Those who perpetrated the burning are--”

“Having done so by the orders of Simcoe's Rangers,” a new voice joined in their conversation. Abe looked up to see that Ben had quietly snuck up from where ever he had been waiting or hiding and had pressed the end of a flintlock pistol's barrel right into Arnold's nape of the neck.

“Uh...” he began, utterly baffled as to what Ben was doing, just as he heard tables and chairs scrape back, as everyone within the vicinity of their table backed extremely quickly away. Ben's appearance at the moment, sans floppy hat and cloak that covered his uniform, was not going according to the plan; he was supposed to have confronted Arnold at the entrance to the inn, just as Arnold was leaving, full of confident spirit or rage.

“Mr... Underhill, was it?” Ben casually asked, as Abe saw Arnold place his hands up slightly to show that he was not arming himself or making any sudden movements.

“Y-yeah...?” Abe stuttered.

“2nd Light,” Ben called out, as Abe turned to see members of the unit rise up from another table while dumping their cloaks and hats off as well, revealing the blue-white uniforms of their unit. Abe had not realized that Ben had had more members of his unit sit within the inn – he had thought that the five whom were cleverly hidden outside and had traveled with them to Westchester were the only ones. More tables got up and scattered away as the bartender finally called out for a 'no firefight'.

Four dragoons got up and came over. Two roughly hauled Arnold up from where he had been sitting, while another two hauled Abe up. Frog marching Arnold out first, Abe managed to turn slightly around from where he was being led to, only to see Ben place a small sack of coins onto the bartender's table before leaning in and muttering what looked to be an apology for the mess of sorts. As Ben joined their march out of the inn and to the back, Abe saw the closed expression on his face. He wanted to protest, to call his friend out on what was happening, but with Arnold close by and the not-too-gentle way that Ben's dragoons were hauling and frog-marching him towards the back door, he kept his mouth shut.

Outside, Abe squinted slightly as the sunlight hit his eyes while he looked around. There were several horses, two of them with only bridle and saddle on the beasts; and he could only guess that the two empty horses that were tethered to two dragoons were for him and Arnold to ride. One of the men who had been frog marching him let go and produced some rope. His hands were tied in front and a gag placed over his mouth as he was led to one of the horses. Arnold struggled a bit, and was nearly successful in yelling out for help, when he too was gagged. That, and Ben and the others leveling their carbines and pistols at Arnold stilled the man.

Abe didn't get to see anything else as he was 'helped' up to his horse and caught a glimpse of his folio being passed off to another of the dragoons before a sack was placed over his head. A few moments or minutes later – he couldn't tell – there was the telltale sounds of hooves pounding on the ground and the snorting of a horse and rider quickly making his way up to them.

“Forces belonging to Tarleton and the Delancey cousins are approaching, sir!” he heard the rider state. Not even before the scout had finished his report, muffled yelling coming from Arnold nearly drowned out the rest of whatever he was hearing. The sounds of someone punching Arnold to silence him was swift, but Abe could hear Ben already issuing orders.

He heard and felt someone take the reins of his horse, before hearing Ben's close voice near his ear say, “Hold onto the mane. This will be quick.”

With his hands bound together in front of him, Abe had no other choice but to bend slightly forward and feel out where the mane of the horse was. Grabbing on just in the nick of time, there was a whinny and the sounds of someone kicking the horse that tethered to his horse. A few moments later, he was nearly jerked out of his saddle as his horse went from a complete standstill to a full canter. He could barely hear the sounds of pistols and carbines firing over the rush of wind, heavy breathing of the horses, and the pounding of hooves on the hard ground.

Worry, fear, and a touch of exhilaration clawed at him as he hoped that whatever Ben had planned in this entirely unplanned execution of the capture of General Arnold, would work. It sounded as if the scout report of the British officers Tarleton and the Delancey cousins wasn't entirely unexpected. He just wished Ben had the foresight to warn him about possible British forces patrolling in the area. But then again, Ben had kept him in the dark about many things lately.

Abe and whomever was escorting him to where he hoped was still the place where they were going to squirrel away Arnold (and him for a brief time), seemed longer than he anticipated. The horse and its escort dragoon rider didn't seem to slow, though Abe held himself at as much ease as possible on his horse, since he didn't know when there would be twists and turns in the path they were taking. Minutes that passed like hours, couple with the smell of burning firewood, early blooming plants, and the earthy smell of the horses penetrated the rank sack smell, giving him a little relief.

When the horses started to slow down, Abe finally allowed himself to relax slightly. Soon, they stopped, and he heard his escort rider get off his horse before coming over and tugged on his left leg to indicate that he should get off as well. As he awkwardly swung his right leg off while half-stepping onto the stirrup to the left, he stumbled and nearly fell backwards. The dragoon stepped forward to catch him, and as he bumped into him, he realized that the chest he had poked his elbow into with his fall was a little more 'cushioned' than normal.

“Oh shite!” he exclaimed, as he realized who exactly was his escort and had caught him in his fall, and had righted him. “I am so sorry!”

The answer to his curse and hasty apology was a hearty bark of laughter as he heard Ben's descendant, Samantha, say, “I can only imagine how beet red you are under that hood, Woodhull, but apology accepted. Come on, lets get you settled. You'll still need to put on a performance until we can fully isolate you, okay?”

As much as Abe wanted to ask his questions, especially with regards to Townsend and the others in New York, he held his tongue. If Samantha Tallmadge was here, then that meant that Townsend and the others had a general knowledge of the plan. Now that they were at the exchange/safehouse, then the other two descendants of Ben, former General Benjamin S. Tallmadge and his brother, Sheridan Ranger Captain William Tallmadge, were already there. He didn't know much about the set up, since Ben stated with good reason that it would be better for him to have genuine reactions, rather than forced ones. He agreed with the assessment, but he was still a little nervous as to what was to happen.

Nodding, he was then led by his right elbow and carefully led across crunchy leaf beds, navigated through a small bridge of sorts, and into something that smelled like a slightly rank water mill. He was sat down against a support, and finally the sack on his head was lifted.

Blinking and squinting until his eyes were used to the brightness again, he briefly looked around to see that he was in a mill, though it looked long to be abandoned and dried out. He saw Samantha, in her dragoon uniform, going about, checking all the windows and closing the shutters slightly to dim the lighting in the area before turning towards him. There were all sorts of armaments on her, carbines, pistols, and even two hatchets. The blocky pistol that he had seen her carry with her in a wrapped cloth of sorts was nowhere to be seen from the angle he saw her profile at.

“So what now?” he asked. “And where are we?”

“Lyme, Connecticut,” she answered, producing a coil of rope from a barrel near the fireplace. “I have to tie you to the support pole. They're going to put Arnold in the same place as you are to help strengthen your cover.”

“Wait... Lyme?!” he exclaimed, whistling at just how far they had come from Westchester, New York, to this port town along the coast of Connecticut. It was near New London, but considering that New Haven was all but burnt, he supposed that this was now considered no-man's land or disputed territory.

Samantha beamed, looking quite pleased. “Guess you didn't see the fact that we had robotic horses integrated among those 2nd Light that Ben brought with him, eh?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head slightly before pursing his lips for a moment. “So try to get as much information from Arnold as possible?” he asked.

“Yeah, if you can, though given your civilian status, he'll probably call for your release sooner than later,” she said, wrapping the rope around him and the support several times before knotting. It was snug, but not a tightly uncomfortable wrap around him, though he supposed that it gave the appearance of being held against his will, considering his wrists had not been loosened yet.

“What about William Tallmadge?” he asked. “Where is he?”

“Benji's got him squirreled away for now. Until Arnold calls for your release, we can't bring him into here. He's pretty volatile enough, even when gagged...”

“Oh... right,” he said, nodding slightly before there was a swift knock on the door to the mill's interior, cutting off whatever else Samantha was going to say. Not a moment later, it was opened and Abe saw both Ben and another of the dragoons frog march General Arnold into the mill. A sack was still draped over the man's head, and he was struggling somewhat as Ben and the other dragoon hauled him in.

He saw Samantha back slightly away and search for more rope, as Arnold was forced to sit on the opposite side of the pole rather none-too-gently. Rope was quickly tied around the man, and after that was completed, Abe turned a little further from where he was sitting, seeing both Samantha and the other dragoon leave. He saw Ben rip the sack over Arnold's head off rather abruptly and heard and felt the slamming of Arnold against the support as the man struggled against his bonds. He could only imagine the rage that encompassed Arnold's expression, trying to counter and break the completely stony look that had appeared on Ben's face.

Arnold yelled something incomprehensible through the gag around his mouth, but this time, Abe saw Ben reach in and remove the gag before stepping back. Not a few moments later, he heard Arnold say in a calmer, but still irate tone, “I am an officer of the British Army, Tallmadge, and I will not be treated like a sack of meat! You will afford me the proper courtesy per the rules of warfare!”

“I would, had you not become a turncoat and betrayed our cause, _General_ Arnold,” he heard Ben coldly state.

“What is to be done with me then? Why are we here – wherever we are?” Arnold demanded. When Ben did not answer and merely stepped away, headed back towards the door, Abe saw Arnold look around, finally seemingly noticing him. “At least have some mercy and let Mr. Underhill go, Major. He is a civilian and of no consequence. He had been merely attending to my affairs in New Haven.”

Abe saw Ben stop just shy of pushing the door that separated them from the outside open with a hand. He saw him turn slightly before saying, “Everyone and everything has consequences, General Arnold. You of all people should have understood that well before you betrayed General Washington.”

~~~

Outside, Ben shut the door to the abandoned mill tightly, muffling the sounds of spluttering rage coming from Arnold. He desperately wanted to lean against the door and let go of the breath he seemingly had been holding since he had stepped back into the inn and leveled his pistol at the man, but didn't. Instead, he looked up to see Samantha and Benji – it was still a little strange for him to refer to his other descendant who had been his equal in rank before his battlefield promotion by preferred given name – approach.

“I need to check on my men down in Westchester,” he stated as he closed the distance. “Intelligence from First Troop posted down here a few months ago stated that Tarleton is almost as ruthless as Simcoe himself when it comes to engaging in battles.”

“William is still secured with the others,” his counterpart stated. “Go, we'll keep an eye on Arnold here. Do you want us to wait until you return to pull Woodhull out?”

“No,” he answered, shaking his head, as the three of them headed towards the robotic horses that had carried Abe, Arnold, Samantha, Sergeant Davenport, and him here.

He grabbed the reins of the horse he had borrowed from his counterpart – etched [721] on its side and swung himself up. “It seems all too easy to have captured Arnold like that. As much as I want Abe to gather as much as he can from Arnold, we'll need to pull him out sooner than later.”

“Don't worry Ben, we'll make sure this isn't a trap being set by Arnold himself,” Samantha chirped.

“Go see to your men, Major. We'll hold the fort here,” his counterpart reassured him.

* * *

_Somewhere within the region..._

 

The splash of water, or whatever the hell it was, was ice-cold enough to wake Caleb up from the stupor he had fallen into. Blinking awake, he saw a fuzzy face peering down at him, along with a muffled question. He continued to reach towards fully waking up from whatever time had passed between his last torturous session at the hands of the man who looked like the defected Major John Andre and someone who looked like Simcoe, but didn't speak in the tone or inflection of the man, He could barely remember how many times he had done this thus far--

“Wake up, Brewster,” a gruff but female voice stated rather harshly in his ear.

He didn't get a chance to say or react as a wash of pain crawled up and down his body. His skin felt like it was on fire, and it was difficult for him to breathe, much less give a yelp of protest as he was hauled from from the cold floor he had been lying on. Dragged by his arms by two others, he nearly blacked out again.

“Where...” he managed to slur out, fighting to keep awake.

“You're being traded, Lieutenant,” the same woman stated as he heard the pinging pitch and grind of another cell being opened up. Blearily looking up slightly, he saw anther person being dragged out of the cell as well. Matted hair and filthy clothes covered her, barely identifying her as Carrie.

He blinked again, and when he looked up again, the dank, damp cells of wherever he and his descendant had been placed into for God only knew how long, had changed. He could only assume he had blacked out, lost track of more time, and as he was half-dragged to wherever he and Carrie were being taken to, he had just a sliver of his wits about him. It was enough for him to know and identify that someone not British, but Britannian, was taking both of them out of the cells and transferring them.

“Commandant Sheridan,” a high, nasally voice as familiar as the sound of his own voice, suddenly pierced the fog that had settled over his eyes and ears.

“Captain Simcoe,” the woman whom had woken him abruptly, greeted in a cold tone.

“I wasn't aware that Director Andre had given orders to transfer these two.”

Caleb managed to lift his head up enough to see that the commander of the future group of Rangers standing in front of him, with a hand on the blocky rifle that was slung to her side. He knew that it was useless to attempt to grab the rifle, not only because it was imprinted to be used only by Sheridan, but also the fact that he could see the blurry forms of Simcoe's Queen's Rangers behind their commander as well.

“They are my prisoners, Captain,” Sheridan answered icily. “You'd best remember that I do not answer to the Director.”

“Ah, you misjudge my intentions, Commandant,” Simcoe said. “I am merely requesting to join you in the transfers of these prisoners. They are, after all, quite valuable.”

“Your enthusiasm is appreciated, Captain, but unnecessary,” he heard the Commandant dismissively say.

There was a few moments of silence that passed between the two before Caleb saw Simcoe smile and step to the side. The Queen's Rangers followed their commander's lead, and not a moment later, Caleb felt himself being dragged and tugged forward again. Glancing back, as he saw Simcoe step back to where he had been standing, he couldn't help but feel uneasy. He couldn't help but feel that he had missed something significant between the two commanders of wholly different but all the same kind of Ranger units.

~~~

“Take the men, Dawes,” Simcoe said, leaning slightly towards the sergeant. “Disguise yourselves as bandits with flintlocks, and follow the Commandant. If it is just a simple transfer, report back as so. If it is something other than that, shoot them.”

“All of them sir?” the sergeant asked.

“All of them,” he repeated. “I am curious as to what Commandant Sheridan is doing, when by all accounts from the information my counterpart had provided, she had orders to apply her acumen to this 'serum'.”

“What about you sir?”

Simcoe gave the man a simple but withering look, saying, “I'm to stay here. For deniability, and to see what exactly my counterpart is doing. He must be guided to a proper manner befitting of his new lease on life, after all.”

* * *

_Fort West Point_

 

“Forgive my bluntness, Mrs. Strong, but how well acquainted are you with Major Tallmadge?”

Anna looked up from the clothes that had just been recently laundered and needed to the hung dry, that she had plucked out of the basket to see a young woman no older than perhaps sixteen years of age, standing beside the shirt she had just strung up. A little further away along this particular clothesline was Mary, hanging up another basket of clothing. To ensure that their covers and arrival into the camp were not met with resentment or too many questions, both of them had been put to work by a most curious of a man named Nathaniel Sackett. However, where they were in camp relative to the area, was near the officers' area.

As for Selah, he was somewhere within the camp, gathering the necessary items to secure for their leaving of the camp soon. Andrew had returned to the tent where Anna had heard rumors of the future people trying to produce some sort of medicine or something that could potentially greatly help turn the tide in the war.

Returning her attention to the young woman standing beside the clothes, she asked, “Pardon?”

“I've noticed that you have been allowed in to the clandestine meetings that he holds with members of his spy ring,” the young woman said, lowering her voice and taking a step closer. “He seems to hold you, along with the others in great confidence.”

“I hardly believe that it is any of your business,” she began, frowning slightly.

She saw her sight for a moment before saying, “I apologize, I'm confusing you with my words. I need someone who has the Major's ear.”

Anna blinked before realizing that this young woman looked slightly familiar – a little like the man, Sackett, whom seemed to be eccentrically proud of what he had taught Ben with regards to espionage. Considering the young woman herself, she looked as astute as her father. Anna thought she had seen her wandering around the camp, sometimes distributing mail from the couriers.

“You're Mr. Sackett's daughter, aren't you? Catherine Charlotte? Can you not tell your father yourself so that he may inform Major Tallmadge, if necessary?”

“My concern is not with regards to the shadows that roam the camp, Mrs. Strong,” the young woman said. “It is with regards to the terrible rumors that have been issuing from the lips of the soldiers. Have you not read of the article that the traitorous General Arnold published?”

If the frown on her expression could get any deeper, it did. Anna had walked by the outskirts of the enlisted portion of the camp, and had read the damning article. She had heard voices of discontent – which incidentally, also became Selah's reason why the two of them had to leave camp sooner, rather than later. Selah was gravelly concerned that a rebellion within the Continental Army was brewing, and thought that Arnold's article was fanning the embers into flames.

“Yes, I have,” she answered. “But what ever do you think Major Tallmadge can do about it?” She didn't even know what could be done to quash such rumors, short of sending the future-people back, which she knew could not be done yet. Not without the three devices, one of which Sackett had shown them.

“Please speak to the commander,” the young woman begged. “I know General Washington favors him. If this comes from the Head of Intelligence, he cannot dismiss it. He needs to know what is happening among the ranks.”

“What?” she asked, greatly concerned.

“I hear that if their grievances are not properly addressed, they shall seek restitution in blood. Please let the Major know.”

* * *

_Future namesake home to the disease that ticks carry, Lyme, Connecticut_

 

The door to the mill slammed open, cutting off whatever else Arnold was about to say. Abe turned from where he was, only to see Ben's counterpart roughly haul in a man who looked eerily like Samuel Tallmadge, only for him to realize that the man was not Ben's dead brother, but most likely the 'loyal son of Britannia' he had mentioned during his suggestion on how to trade for Caleb and Caleb's descendant. He had never met William Tallmadge before, but the resemblance was uncanny to Samuel Tallmadge.

Like Arnold, the Ranger was gagged, but he was missing one of his arms. It took a moment for Abe to remember that he had seen the Ranger forcibly break and rip his arm during the night he had arrived to West Point. The Ranger's eyes widened though, at the sight of both Abe and Arnold tied to the support. Forcibly sat down in the same manner that Abe had seen Ben do to Arnold, the Ranger was tied to another support, but did not have his gag removed.

It was Arnold's, “What devilry are you and your people conjuring this time, General?” that startled him out of his staring. “As I recall, you are a traitor to your country as well. Has your she-devil of a commander managed to convince the so-called illustrious commander of the Continental Army to pardon you?”

Ben's counterpart ignored Arnold's demanding and insulting questions. After securing the Ranger, Tallmadge turned to Abe crouching down, saying, “Mr. Underhill, please don't be afraid. I am a relative of Major Tallmadge--” there was a derisive snort from Arnold at that proclamation “--and have been instructed to release and send you on your way.”

“Uh,” Abe began, as Ben's counterpart undid the ropes and hauled him up. “T-thank you, s-sir.”

Escorted outside, he squinted with the bright sun bearing down and blinked a bit to clear the spots up as the sound of multiple hooves approaching were heard. He was pushed back slightly, as he saw both Samantha and Ben's counterpart step up, alert and with their weapons drawn and ready to fire. Being as close as he was, the humming sounds coming from the future weapons that the two held made his teeth tickle.

“Hey!” he heard Samantha gleefully exclaim as he saw them relax slightly, just as the familiar blue-white uniform and white-tailed horse head helmed form of Ben and his dragoons crashed through the woods coming from the west.

Blood splatters covered some of the men, though none looked any worse for wear. As they pulled their horses to a halt, it was the urgency on Ben's expression that worried him, as Abe heard him say, “We saw a lone whaleboat approaching from the southwest, bearing several people, one of them being Commandant Sheridan. They'll be landing soon.”

“So how do you want to play this, Major?” he heard Tallmadge ask his counterpart as he saw Ben hop off his horse, taking it and holding the horse steady by the bit area.

“How was Arnold, Abe?” Ben asked instead of directly answering his counterpart after waving for his dragoons to do whatever they needed to do to get ready for the arrival of the trading party.

“Livid, for one,” he answered, shrugging slightly. “His temper... I thought it couldn't get any worse than it already had been. He's tried several times to call out for someone outside of this mill to free me, proclaiming that I'm innocent.” He saw Samantha and her cousin nod to that. “He's apparently now been appointed as 'Spyhunter General' of the British Army. He's also not happy that his wife is spending so much just to keep up the lifestyle that his rank in the British Army has been afforded--” he paused for a moment. Crossing his arms over his chest, he then said, “Speaking of which, Ben, what the hell?! How come you didn't tell us that _she_ was one of us?!”

“She's not,” Ben answered, shaking his head slightly. “The Ring and its participants are not the only agents that I and others are fielding. You were never supposed to meet, but enough for now. Take the horse, Abe, and get clear. Tarleton's forces are still somewhere in the area, but my men will hold the opportunity open for you to get back to the fort. Your cover is still intact, if not even better now, so we'll discuss what's to happen after we finish the trade.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head, knowing what his friend was trying to do. “You still have that coin, right? Five hundred pounds, or so what Agent Strong told me was the amount? You also have General Arnold in your grasp. Considering the lengths that you and Washington had tasked us to prevent his defection, I'm willing to bet that you're unwilling to give him up, even to trade for Caleb or Carrie.”

Ben's expression remained unchanged, though Abe could have sworn that he saw a slight hooding of his eyes for a moment before hearing Ben's counterpart speak up, saying, “He's got you read like a book, sir.”

His friend's expression remained unchanged, before he saw him let go of a small sigh and say, “So what are you proposing, Abe?”

“Commandant Sheridan and your brother, Mr. Tallmadge, do not know what I look like, yeah? If you introduce me as Arnold's lawyer, Underhill, and tell them that you caught me fielding documents to the General, you're willing to make the trade of a spy for another spy – colonial for a colonial, future-person for a future-person.”

“It could work,” Samantha spoke up, looking optimistic. “I mean, we didn't even know whom our ancestors look like except for rough sketches. No offense, Woodhull, but you yourself aren't exactly rich enough to afford to commission a portrait.” Abe gave her a mild look, but did not voice a protest to the truth. His father was well-to-do, but he had chosen the noble occupation of farming instead of the law.

Samantha continued, gesturing towards Ben, saying, “And the only image we had of you that survived the long centuries, ancestor of ours, was this rough pencil sketch of you in uniform. I mean, it was our great-grandfather who kept saying that Benji here matched descriptions written about you. Director Andre would have had only had photographs... real sketches of us folks, not you guys.”

He saw Ben frown slightly, his look pensive, before catching him glancing at him. Finally, he heard him say, “You're sure you want to do this, Abe?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, feeling a slight nervousness crawl up his stomach that he violently quashed down. “I'm ready.”

~~~

Ben slowly released the breath he was holding as he approached Abe and nodded for his counterpart to bring William Tallmadge out from the house. Samantha had also followed her cousin in, and was going to make sure Arnold was gagged. Taking his friend by an arm, he raised a hand towards the wooded areas, signaling for his men to stand down and get ready for the exchange. He could already see small shadows on the horizon of the beach – the approach of Sheridan and her people.

Trust Abe to be as astute as ever, his inner voice told him, as he moved his friend over towards the empty gully that the water had previously flowed into. He could hear his men join behind him, while both Benji and Samantha appeared, with the former forcing William Tallmadge forward to join them.

He openly frowned as Sheridan and her people approached ever so closer, clearly seeing the state that both Caleb and Brewster were in. Battered and bruised – they looked as if they had been tortured greatly. “What the hell did you do to them?!” he angrily stated, taking a step forward. It was only Abe's soft grunt that he realized that he had tightened his grip on Abe's arm to the point of hurting him.

As he eased his grip on his friend, he did not let the anger die though, as Sheridan stopped on the other side of the gully and said, “Who the hell is this?”

“This is Abraham Underhill, a lawyer whom General Arnold had enlisted into subversive activities, and was caught behind enemy lines. Two for two, Commandant,” he stated, trying to keep his anger in check at just how terrible both Brewsters looked. “Plus five hundred pounds.” He heard the clink of coins in a canvas bag being briefly held up by one of his men.

“A colonial spy for a colonial spy,” Sheridan answered, a thin, humorless smile gracing her expression. “An officer of the US Army for one of my Rangers. How quaint, Major Tallmadge. We'll see. One of the Brewsters for William. You get to pick which one.”

“Carrie--” he heard Caleb hoarsely begin.

“Caleb for William,” he interrupted, knowing that not only was it selfish of him to demand Caleb's release, it would also potentially guarantee that Caleb's descendant would survive thus far.

“As you wish,” the Commandant said, but that thin smile became a little crueler as she continued to say, “though considering that my son's arm has been torn off, it would only be fair to--”

The whine of the future rifles and pistols that both sides carried, along with the flintlocks being brought up by not only him but others filled the air. That split second of silence that rang through the clearing, as both sides pointed rifles at each other was broken by the strangest of sounds – the hooting of an owl – and by the sudden 'Oh shit!' exclamation from several of those gathered.

Chaos exploded in front and around Ben as the pinging sounds of flintlocks peppered the sky and ground. He saw Brewster shove Caleb forward, forcing him to leap over the small gully, just as a flintlock shot lanced into her arm. Both sides were reacting to the ambush as Ben let Abe go for a moment and grabbed Caleb, hauling him up. One of his dragoons managed to get Caleb further up and towards the barn. He spotted movement out towards the eastern woods and fired his pistol at the movement.

“Fall back!” he shouted, just as he saw the strangest of blurs burst through the north woods and took a flying leap towards them. The blur, or rather, the remnants of a robotic donkey tumbled through, bowling over two of the Rangers who had tried to drag the injured Brewster away. Freed, he saw Benji jump over the gully, grab her, before leaping back.

A flash of a red coat cut across the corner of his eyes though, as Ben caught a glimpse of Arnold tearing through the gully. There were splints of wood and dust covering him – somehow, the man had managed to break free of his tight bindings against the support within the mill and found a secret path of sorts to escape into.

“Don't!” he heard his counterpart shout, yanking on his arm to force him to follow his own orders.

At the same time, he also heard a shrill feminine voice shout from behind them, “No!”

“Mari!” Abe yelled, just as another flintlock shot tore through the red-haired blur, wearing a flower-patterned dress, who had tackled Abe to the ground.

Ben saw the shot lance through from shoulder to shoulder of the young woman, and realized that it had been Mari Woodhull, Abe's descendant, who had 'thrown' her donkey at Sheridan's people. Abe was lying on the ground, unhurt, but unmoving as bullets kept hailing down upon them. Bolts of blue, along with the familiar _bzzt bzzt_ sounds that accompanied them fired back, but with just how damp the place was, it was not setting fire to the wooded area. It was also not driving out the attackers.

Yanking on Abe's left arm, both he and Samantha hauled him up, just as he ducked on instinct as he felt the searing heat of a flintlock bullet pass perilously close to his right. With covering fire being provided to them, by his men, he and Samantha dragged Abe back towards the mill, seeking to take shelter in the house before the Rangers could position themselves to fire upon them. As much as he wanted to go after the fleeing Arnold, Ben knew that he couldn't – he had to get them out of this situation that he had put all of them in.

As the door slammed closed, he saw his counterpart place the injured Brewster down against the fireplace, while Caleb was already resting in exhaustion against a barrel, with the remnants of one of the mill's support structure clearly shorn into pieces by Arnold's escape, near him. Those of the 2nd Light who had accompanied Ben to carry out this mission, and had survived the ambush, were already closing the shutters, trying to block the line of sight from any opportunistic marksman from either the Rangers or whomever had ambushed them.

Catching one last glimpse outside before the last of shutters was closed, he heard Davenport state, “Bandits sir, or at least the looks of bandits. Shooting at both sides.”

“The Rangers are still here, though,” Samantha spoke up from where she was, checking on Caleb's wounds.

As much as he wanted to go over and visually and physically verify that Caleb was going to be all right, he restrained himself from doing so. Instead, he took a few steps towards Abe, who had a long, blank stare that seemed to be seeing everything and nothing at the same time. Ben could not blame him for having such a look – seeing someone who looked eerily like Mary Woodhull, killed, was not easy. However, he needed Abe in the here and now – needed him to not be wallowing in shock. Crouching down, his presence beside his friend managed to stir Abe out of his stupor for a moment.

“She's still out there, Ben,” Abe said, his tone that of horror.

“Abe, look at me,” he said, trying to coax him out of his fugue. “Look at me. She's not your wife. That woman is not your wife--”

“She is...was my great-granddaughter--”

“She's gone, Abe. We're still alive,” he said, before reaching out and taking one of Abe's hands. Opening so Abe's palm was facing up, Ben then placed his pistol into his friend's hand. Upon seeing Abe blink and curl his hand around the pistol before looking back up at him, he knew that his friend was at least going to be awake and alert for the next few minutes as he tried to figure out what to do _before_ the Sheridan Rangers decided to try to torch the mill with them in it.

Getting up from his crouch he then made his way over towards his counterpart and Brewster. Even before he settled into a crouch beside the two, the pale look that blanketed Brewster's expression was not good. “How is she?” he asked.

“Not good,” his counterpart quietly stated, tearing up some more cloth from his own clothes to wrap around the wound that had pierced the upper part of her arm. “She's running a fever, most likely from the wound that she had received during the New Haven rescue. She's also been shot through the armpit.”

“And I'm doing fucking fine, Benji,” Brewster spat out, trying to grin through the grimace that involuntarily spasmed across her expression at the tightening of the cloth around her shoulder and arm. “Just a fucking flesh wound on the side, a stupid-ass fever that some pills can knock away once we get back to camp, and an armpit that won't smell anymore whenever I sweat. I'm fucking fine. Give me a fucking rifle and I'll shoot those bastards down, sir.”

The grimness and clear concern shining through his counterpart's eyes gave Ben the real assessment of Brewster's condition; the woman was bleeding out to death. If they did not seek the surgeon's help soon, she would die. However, he knew that voicing it would not only cause what little morale they had left to drop, but also distract them from the primary objective – that is to escape. He patted his counterpart on the shoulder, saying, “Keep me appraised.”

With a silent nod given to him in return, Ben then got up and finally made his way over to Caleb. Samantha had managed to tear a few pieces of cloth from her own uniform and bound it in areas to support and stem the bleeding from the various tiny wounds he had seen upon his friend. “You still with me?” he asked, clasping his friend on the shoulder.

“Yeah,” Caleb answered, nodding with more strength than Ben had seen him with since the exchange started.

“I counted at least ten men on the east ridge, sir,” one of his dragoons stated.

“Four from the northwest ridge,” Samantha grimly spoke up.

“That, plus the remaining five or so Rangers the Commandant has with her, and William, puts it at, at least twenty,” he heard Benji state. “She's going to know or knew that we had Arnold. If he's still here--”

“Yeah. I know,” he gruffly answered, loading another pistol as he heard the whine of his counterpart's rifle power down for just a moment as he glanced up from his loading of his pistol to see him eject the clip for a moment to check how much was left. If Arnold was still in the area and managed to join forces with the Commandant and her Rangers, then he was going to be most likely after their blood. He knew how tenacious Arnold was when faced with battle.

Before he could formulate a plan and voice it though, a scrabbling sound was heard that seemed a little too loud and large to be a mere rat. The noise seemed to echo, and just as Ben and the others realized where the sound was coming from, the cover where the well that allowed those inside the mill to draw water from, smashed open. Ben immediately raised his pistol and fired nearly point blank into the head of the bandit who had popped out of the well.

The bandit was not alone though, as not a second later, more attempted to invade through the empty well. They were swiftly cut down by a hail of blue bolts and flintlock pistols. One fell back down the well, thumping onto the ground, while the other two fell forward, half-draping themselves over the lip of the well. Reloading as quickly as possible, Ben cautiously approached and peered down the well for a moment. It was empty, but he thought he could hear the scrabbling sounds of more people approaching.

“We can't use this as a distraction or escape,” he said, stepping back, just as his counterpart stepped up and fired a few bolts into the well to try to keep the enemy approaching. “They'll smoke us out sooner rather than later—”

At once, there came a tremendous crash of sorts, like the sounds of a tree being fell by an ax and snapping over other trees. Shouts, terrified ones, immediately filled the air, along with the _bzzt bzzt_ sound. The ground beneath their feet shook ever so slightly, though it was only after the familiar buzzing of bees that signaled a Gatling being powered up and fired that Ben considered the possibility of what had just arrived.

He didn't need to voice it though, as the weak chuckle of Brewster, still lying and looking even paler than she had been a few minutes ago, gave him the answer he was looking for. “Like giants in the playground,” he thought he heard her say. “Count on the Third Section to have your back. They're not done fucking around with the Sheridan Rangers.”

“They were following Mari's lead to this place then,” he heard his counterpart state.

“That's our distraction,” he agreed, nodding slightly.

“I'm going to help them,” Abe suddenly declared, getting up and taking the pistol that he had been given earlier.

Ben immediately closed the distance and placed a hand out upon his friend's chest. “Abe... Abe, no.” He knew that look that encompassed Abe's eyes all too well – it had encompassed his own, and still had not been fully mastered within himself. Revenge; Abe wanted revenge, and right now, it was the worst thing any of them could do.

“I'm with you, so I'm helping,” Abe stubbornly declared, glaring right past him and attempted to step away, towards the door to the mill. “I will not let anyone else die for me--”

“Abe, look at me. You're in no condition to,” he countered, this time, stepping in front of his friend and drawing himself to his full height to tower slightly over him. “Our priority is escape. Those of the Third Section – they agreed specifically to protect you and the others. The sooner we get clear, the better.”

The fire in Abe's eyes did not die, but Ben was glad that his friend was listening to reason. Still, Abe did not return to where he had been sitting and merely asked, “What's the escape plan then?”

Turning to Sergeant Davenport, who looked a little bit worse for wear, but otherwise uninjured, he asked, “Sergeant, are the robotic horses still tethered or cubed?”

“Cubed, sir,” the man stated, producing the horses that they had borrowed for this mission from the 2nd Legionnaires.

“All right,” he said before pointing to four of the five dragoons that were left. “You four, with me. We'll provide a volley of covering fire.” Gesturing to Samantha, Davenport, and his counterpart, he said, “The three of you will get the horses ready. As soon as they're up, Abe, get the lieutenant--” he gestured to Caleb's descendant “--and yourself to the horses.”

Reaching down and hefting Caleb up to his feet, he glanced over to see that his friend's eyes were shining with determination. He specifically didn't give Caleb any orders with regards to the escape plan, understanding that while just as hot of a head as Abe, Caleb knew his limits. “Ready?”

Caleb nodded, as the others around the mill voiced their assent. There was no protest from Abe, but with the gravity of the situation, Ben hoped that he had pressed with urgency upon Abe, of the direness. His and his dragoons' covering fire were two-fold: not only would it provide adequate smoke to conceal Abe, it would also give those of the Third Section fighting outside a window of opportunity or relief.

Making his way to the door, he and his men readied their pistols and carbines, and after the next break in the firefight that was followed by the shuddering of the ground again, they shoved the door open. Charging out, Ben took position furthest away from the mill, firing his pistol at the nearest bandit, felling him. A volley of four followed him, as his dragoons also took aim.

He would have turned away to get to the deployed horses, had it not been for the fact that high above the smoke screen that they had created with their flintlocks, he saw a spindly, almost human-like shape towering over the other combatants on the field. Two others just like it were a little ways away, with one in the northeast forest, snapping trees as if they were twigs. Anna and the others had not been jesting when they had clearly described the weapons that the Third Section wielded – it was terrifying as it was awe-inspiring.

At that moment though, the person locked within the center pod of the mechanical giant turned slightly, and Ben's eyes widened in shock. “Natalie...” he managed to whisper, seeing the woman he loved, sitting in the pod and wielding the mechanical giant to fight. She looked as fierce as she was determined – like an angel blessed and forged in fire. He didn't get to say anything else, as he was suddenly forcibly tugged up.

With more strength than he thought possible, he was lifted half-way off the ground by a hand, and as he turned back, he came face-to-face with a burnished-armored person leaning down on the [721] etched horse. “We need to go, sir!” he heard his counterpart state, his voice tinny though the armor, but still carried the commanding quality in it.

He couldn't get free of that iron grip that Benji, in his armor attached to his robotic horse, had, as he was immediately seated behind him. Grabbing on to an area of the smooth, cold armor that looked as if it were made for a second rider to hold onto, he glanced back as smoke enveloped his vision again for a brief moment. “We can't leave Natalie behind!”

He didn't know if his words had been heard by Benji, as the two of them sped off to catch up with Abe, Caleb, and the others. However, as they got closer to the escaping group, he heard his counterpart answer, “Believe me, I didn't want to leave her behind either...”

* * *

_Fort West Point_

 

“Fascinating... most fascinating...”

Washington waited with as much patience as he could muster as Nathaniel Sackett continued to pour through the last of the pages that Major John Andre had written. All of it had been cross-verified by himself and Hamilton earlier in the week during the official interview. A copy of the report would be sent to Congress via several different and most trusted couriers when his friend was done reviewing the report.

When Nathaniel was finally done, Washington saw him look up with the familiar, owlish look that he had seen many a times. “Of course,” his friend said, gesturing to the papers, “most of the Intelligence he has provided is quite useless now. But it does give more insight to his personality and ways of thinking, adding to the interesting way he describes his duties as the British Intelligence.”

“And?” he prompted.

“Hmph,” Nathaniel answered. “Propaganda wise, he is useless. His defection, while a great blow to the British, would do little to change the war now. It seems that he had overplayed his hand during the Monmouth and Haddonfield affairs. Intelligence wise, it would also be extremely dangerous to allow him to interact with our Head of Intelligence. The man is a master in deception, but if given the correct guidance and supervision...”

“Ah, counterintelligence then,” he summarized, as he saw his friend nod in agreement. “How soon can it be done?”

“As soon as your Head of Intelligence returns from wherever he had gallivanted off to,” Nathaniel sniffed slightly.

Washington frowned slightly – he had not known that Tallmadge, along with a majority of the Culper Ring within the camp, had left for something until Laurens had mentioned it off hand. Hamilton had already been dispatched early in the morning with orders to give distribute to the other commanders in the region. Lafayette was currently coordinating with the French forces and fleet, and the Russian forces, preparing for possible assaults by either the British or Britannia in retaliation for the Continental taking of Fort West Point.

As for the other matter on hand related to the fort... “And might you have any suggestions with regards to General Arnold's defection?” he asked.

“I believe that you have already adequately stated it to Tallmadge and Hamilton,” Nathaniel answered with a most simple of looks on his face. “As for that article Arnold published... Well, that is indeed, another problem. One that I do not believe that even I can give you any advice to resolve.”

Washington tightened his right hand into a fist for a moment, letting the anger he clearly felt briefly fill him before taking a deep breath. Quietly letting it go, he opened his right hand and then placed both hands on the table. Staring at the multiple reports that laid on the desk before him, including the most recent one delivered to him from Laurens about the torching of New Haven, he finally looked back up.

“Would you have done anything differently, my old friend?” he asked, managing to keep the deep-seated anger from coloring his tone as much as possible. Nathaniel did not deserve his ire, no matter what happened. The man was as invaluable with eccentric ideas as he was a confidante. He knew that he had been snappish lately to his aides and wished that Martha could be here, but with spring already here and battles beginning in earnest, it was too dangerous to call for her.

“Concerning Arnold's request for scouts to search for his missing son, no,” his friend answered, shaking his head slightly. “Concerning the debt and attempted blackmail that plagued him, perhaps. Congress, after all, still have not paid the men in full, or any of us for the matter. I hear that even the smugglers are struggling to sell, due to the Britannian blockade on goods from both sides. They're creating a choke hold, one that Arnold is correct on that part in his declaration. We _must_ send these future-people home to their time.”

“A hunt then?” he questioned, though it was more of a statement than question. “Not for Arnold, but for the final two assassins whom contain the key to victory?”

“Victory, yes, but for us or for the British?”

 

~*~*~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Senpai noticed me? @_@
> 
> I'm combining S4 Episode 2 and S4 Episode 3 into one chapter, and possibly extending it out past S4 Episode 6, since the current story line in the show is paralleling what I've already written in previous chapters (Abe infiltrating NY, Culper's identity being known, and Peggy signing up to help take down Arnold in the latest episode). However, that doesn't mean I'm giving up the parallel - I'm just twisting it a little further sideways.
> 
> Special thanks to Shadow Chaser's advice and allowance of the usage of said extensive research about the Delancey cousins wrecking havoc upon the Westchester area of New York... along with the real-life historical activities of the 2nd Continental Light Dragoons in that area during the war.


	34. Knightmare

**Chapter 34: Knightmare**

 

“...Caleb...”

Hazy, strange images of great grey whales dancing on water scraped across his eyes as he swam in the ocean of darkness, trying to follow and find the familiar, warm, and concerned voice that had said his name. His name was repeated again, this time somehow seemingly overlapping with a feminine tone that he only heard while pillowed in safe, comforting... arms...

“Genevieve...” he mumbled, wanting to sink deeper into the sleepy haze surrounding him. It was nice, so nice, within the saucy barmaid's arms--

“Caleb,” his name was repeated again, this time causing him to snap his eyes open.

For one panicked moment, he thought he saw Captain Simcoe and Director Andre's faces overlapping each other in a hideous blend, before he rapidly blinked. Those images faded away to something safe, something familiar, and something that caused him slowly ease his grip on the strange reality that flashed before his eyes. “Ben?” he whispered, seeing that it was not Simcoe or Andre looking at him with some concern and worry, but Ben.

He was wrapped up in a blanket, the overhanging clouds and the beginnings of leaves providing some shading relief. Someone's saddlebags had been placed under his head as a makeshift pillow, though as he blinked and looked around, he saw that there were others around the fireless camp, including his descendant. Her head was propped up against Ben's counterpart's lap, and though she too was wrapped in a blanket, she looked too pale to be healthy. It was only the tiny up and down movement of her chest that he knew she was still alive.

Ben's counterpart was leaning back against the log, eyes closed with a hand tented across his face for the moment. Caleb looked back towards his Ben, only to see his eyes moving across him as if searching for something in particular. He wanted to tell his friend that he was all right, but he didn't feel that way. His entire body hurt, it was difficult for him to move without pain, and he barely remembered what had happened to him during his imprisonment.

“What is God's name were you doing, riding out there when you're still injured?”

Caleb blinked as he focused his eyes on Ben, who leaned back slightly to adjust himself so that he was sitting a little more comfortably. “W-what?” He couldn't remember what happened after he had climbed up on the horse at the mill in Lyme. He had tried to ride off?

He saw Ben shake his head slightly before saying, “You were muttering a prayer, Hail Mary?”

Caleb blinked, stricken with himself. The fuzzy memories of the actions he had taken after they had made an initial camp follow their escape from Lyme, returned. He didn't clearly remember all of his actions, but some of it had been to climb on a horse to try to see if there was any possible way to get to Fort West Point. Carrie was in grave need of medicine from the future. Not only was she still running a fever from the semi-patched wound she had sustained while in New Haven, she was still bleeding from the wound in her arm.

No one in their group had been able to fully stop the bleeding after she had yet again, leapt in front of the bullet meant for him. It was twice now, and she was paying the price by bleeding to death. In his fevered haze, he had gotten it into his head that he could plow through the British and Britannian lines to find her a surgeon – to heal and defy Death.

“Maybe you need some more rest,” Ben quietly said after a few moments of silence, making to get up from where he had been sitting.

“We,” he began, the words croaking and almost lodging in his parched throat, “we need to... Ben... she needs...”

“We're surrounded, Caleb,” Ben stated. “Not counting you or your counterpart, we are only nine strong. We're near Sleepy Hollow, but it's too dangerous for us to move at the moment.”

“Who...” he began, but couldn't find the strength to continue to ask his question as a coughing fit suddenly over took him. He doubled over in excruciating pain that wracked his chest.

He felt Ben gently pat his back and after the fit subsided, he blearily looked back up. “Delanceys and their cavalry, totaling at a hundred and fifty. Tarelton has fallen back, no doubt to bring reinforcements. We don't have the firepower, much less the horse power to fight through all of them,” Ben stated.

It was then that he noticed that there were no horses in sight, and just how deep in the spring budding woods they were. Gnarled trees, along with coniferous ones grew together like the bunching of old stockings on ankles whenever someone ran. Even with the sunlight that streamed through the trees, it bright for them to see, but was most likely not enough to charge the robotic horses.

“Sir!” one of Ben's men hissed, “rider and cart approaching from the east! They're currently on the path, but...”

The whine of the laser rifle of Ben's counterpart, along with the laser pistol briefly filled the air, though it was the cascade of flintlocks being readied that overwhelmed the sound. As much as Caleb wanted to help, he couldn't bring himself to push the blanket off of himself – it was too painful for him to even lift his arms, as his body felt like it had just been lit on fire with his attempt to move. He saw Ben sit up into a crouch, flintlock pistol raised by his right hand, near his head and at the ready.

Caleb's eyes followed Ben as his friend cautiously and quietly approached the area where his men were hiding, just at the lip of ridge they were all holed up in. Samantha had done the same, carefully wiggling herself up the ridge on her belly, with Abe following her actions. Ben's counterpart and placed Carrie gently down on the ground, whispering something into her ear before taking up position elsewhere. He desperately wanted to crawl to his descendant, to hold and comfort her as she laid there, as he had done for her whenever they had not been tortured by the Britannians or Simcoe.

Despair clawed at him, but as he tried to focus his eyes back onto what Ben and the others were doing, the sudden urge to cough was a little too great for him to hold back. Agony that felt like fire-hot logs of wood being burned into him, seared through his skin as his chest felt like it was on fire. He could not breathe, could not see--

“Caleb! Caleb!”

Movement, rustling noise, and voices that sounded so far away yet so close brought him back for just a moment from the darkness that ringed the edges of his eyes. He heaved, drawing in a deep breath and as the fire subsided within his chest, he thought he heard Ben curse, “Christ, what did they do to you...” before succumbing to the blessed darkness.

~~~

A momentary panic gripped Ben as Caleb went limp in his arms, until Samantha placed two fingers on the side of Caleb's neck and shook her head. “He's not dead, just finally out cold.”

Relief flooded him as he looked up to see his men resuming their watch around the camp. They could not relax, even with the sudden appearance of Natalie and the sole remaining member of the Third Section. He was well aware that had Caleb not suddenly collapsed and had a coughing fit loud enough for Natalie or the remaining Third Section member to hear, neither would have found their hiding place. As much as his heart soared for joy to see that Natalie was still alive, it was severely tampered by the two Brewsters' conditions.

“Shite,” he heard Abe whisper as he saw his friend step back, worry creasing his eyes, as he looked elsewhere before settling on the cart. Ben's eyes focused on the cart that the two robotic donkeys, no longer the giant mechanical beasts they had been when he had caught a glimpse of them fighting in Lyme, were hitched to. There were thick coverings draped over what bodies the two had recovered, including that of Mari Woodhull, Abe's descendant.

“How much power do you have left in the donkeys?” he asked, focusing back on both Natalie and the other Third Section member.

“Enough for one more transformation and ten minute fight,” Natalie answered.

“Do you have enough to get back to the fort?”

“If we offload some of the bodies, we can make it in good time,” she answered, before nodding towards Caleb, still being cradled in his arms.

Catching his counterpart's eyes for a moment, it was either fate or coincidence that both he and Benji stated at the same time, “I have an idea.”

* * *

_Fort West Point_

 

“...with the thoughts of... do suggest that an optimism about the conflict...”

Washington paused in his murmuring to himself about a particular article published in one of the very few Patriot gazettes that the British still had not found and burnt down. He took a sip of the coffee in his tea cup, but found it all together a little too bitter, even though he knew that his manservant, William, had sugared it to his liking. It was the content of the counter declaration, published in this gazette, that was affecting his taste at the moment.

Placing the papers down, he pushed his chair back and stood up. Immediately, the door to his office opened and his manservant entered, carrying his cloak forward, seemingly knowing that he wanted to go for a stroll around the camp. As his manservant draped his cloak over him, securing it so that it sat comfortably upon his shoulders, Washington took one last glance at General Nathaniel Greene's rebuttal to Arnold's scathing declaration and left.

When he emerged out of the house, he placed his tricorn on and glanced around, hearing his bodyguards come to attention and prepared to follow him. At first glance, the pitched tents where the various junior and some senior officers of the Continental Army who could not be billeted in the house, looked at peace. A few of the men were out and about, but at a longer look at the immediate camp, there were none of the gaiety or lightness in the men who were out and about. He could see creased foreheads as pairs or even small groups of the soldiers leaned towards each other, gesticulating with concern about matters that had their attention.

Tearing his eyes away from the sight, he made his way down the stairs and turned towards his right. His manservant followed closely behind him, ever his faithful shadow, and as he began his inspection of the camp, he wondered if there were anyway to resolve the mess that was to come.

Rumors left and right, from his aides, and even the whispers he had caught from some of the officers and enlisted men whenever he walked around camp, similar to now, spoke of Arnold's publication. The danger was with the fact that they agreed to some of the sentiments that Arnold had stated about the future-people. He was frustrated that the Army seemed to have blinders upon their eyes to see that many of their battles, including those at Brandywine, Haddonfield, and Monmouth, had initially been only initially comprised of the Continental Army. It was only because Britannian had brought in the future-forces in each battle that he had been forced to request aid from the US Army.

Greene's rebuttal, though strong, was worded ever so carefully that it neither confirmed or denied Arnold's reasonings. While he had never asked his friend to write such a thing, he was grateful that Greene had. The man was most likely the only General within the Continental Army that he could count on for support now, but only up to a certain point. Washington was no fool to have read between the lines within Greene's rebuttal to see that even he was becoming unhappy with how circumstances in the war were going.

General Greene was also occupied with not only Philadelphia but the deployment of his forces further south to counter Cornwallis' attacks on various coastal cities in Virginia and the Carolinas. Thus far as he knew, Britannian forces had not yet spread southwards, and he considered the fact that they were in New York, stubbornly refusing to move out, a boon and a curse. Even if Arnold had not published that declaration, it would be difficult for him to justify invading the city – with or without the future-forces.

French and Russian forces were due in a few days to discuss forward plans for the battles this year, having secured the Massachusetts coast, along with the upper portion of Connecticut and all of Rhode Island. There were a few ideas he hoped to present to the French and Russians, though he was keen on pressing the idea of attacking New York – hopefully without Lieutenant General Washington or her forces aiding him.

It was not that he knew Arnold spoke some truth, it frustrated him that he had to admit that Arnold was right. However, he needed to keep their foreign allies and the Continental Army together, to not let Arnold or the British win by default. To prevent a rebellion within his own forces, he knew that he had to begin planning battles without the aid of the future-people helping him.

That was where his footsteps and cursory observations had taken him – to the edge of the Continental Army camp. Beyond the dividing line between his counterpart's army and his own were the tents where officers ate when not invited to dine with him, along with several camp followers' tents. Sackett's tent of oddities, along with the development of the serum was also situated in the area – accessible to those already tightly integrated between past and future. He could also see members of the 2nd Continental Light Dragoons and 2nd Legionnaires mixed about, along with a few of the more 'braver' souls of the Continental Army and those of the US Army.

One of which was his aide, John Laurens. He knew that the young man greatly admired the artillery commander of the US Army, Major Tuomas Jefferson – almost to the point of emulating him in various aspects. In the distance from where Washington was standing, he could see Laurens nodding to what Jefferson was saying as the two were inspecting one of Gauss cannons, occasionally taking some notes with a quill and parchment. He saw Jefferson suddenly stroke the cannon they were inspecting, the action similar to what a lover would do in a more intimate setting.

He saw Laurens duck his head slightly, and knew that his aide was embarrassed. He had seen that particular movement out of the corner of his eyes whenever Hamilton and Laurens conversed out of earshot about something, but where still in his office conducting their assigned tasks at hand.

Washington frowned slightly, wondering just what on God's good green Earth, that Major Jefferson had said to cause his aide to react that way; not to mention the action the officer was performing on the cannon. However that strange action was quickly doused with two thumps on the cannon by Jefferson's quickly curled hand. Laurens vigorously nodded in agreement not a moment later – as if finally understanding something profound.

Turning away from the sight, he knew that it would be difficult to separate the forces. His aides, including Lafayette, knew more details about the weaponry and their capabilities than what his counterpart was willing to tell him. Hamilton, Laurens, and Lafayette had carefully advised him on how to take advantage of the future-forces, while preserving the limited supply that his counterpart and her forces had arrived with. It would be difficult, but Washington knew that he had no other choice – they had to separate and fight on their own.

Only the Culper-Culpeper Ring would remain integrated, tasked with one last mission: find and capture the remaining two assassins who held the time devices, and if possible capture Arnold while they were engaged in said mission. He felt that only then, would victory be at hand for America.

* * *

“Thomas, stop that.”

Anna glanced up from the missive she was currently writing to see Mary grasp her son's hands for a moment to stop the young boy from banging a silver soldier figurine onto the table. She couldn't help but smile slightly at the sight, clearly remembering a fond memory of her childhood in observing Caleb, Abe, and Ben playing with the various figurines and staging fort raids on the banks of the woodland streams. While she herself had not taken part in their 'raids', she had fancied herself as the surgeon, patching up the figurines with tiny strips of scrap cloth. She also remembered that Thomas, Abe's brother, and very occasionally, Samuel, Ben's brother, joined them in their fun.

Unexpectedly though, Nathaniel David Sackett – or David as he was known and called – the young son of Ben's mentor Nathaniel Sackett, jumped off of his chair and tottered over to Mary and Thomas. She saw the boy lift up a hand with a figurine that had its outstretched arms holding a rifle, tied as if in a sling. “Hurt,” the young boy stated, as Thomas suddenly stopped fussing in Mary's lap and looked at the boy and the figurine in his hand.

A few moments later, Thomas reached out and exchanged the soldier he had for the injured one before withdrawing back. Just as Anna saw Thomas lean back into his mother's arms, quiet now, she saw little David close his hand around the good figurine and quietly return to his seat. She blinked and caught David's sister, Lottie catching her eyes. She had also caught Mary's rather surprised look before Mary returned to her stitching repair of uniforms.

There was a small pile of uniforms sitting next to Anna, but she ignored it for the time being, wanting to finish this missive and send it with the next courier before plunging into the work she had been assigned. Lottie was sitting around this particular campfire as well, performing the tasks that typical camp followers were expected to perform. However, once the next courier arrived, Anna knew that the young woman would be tasked by her father to distribute some of the letters.

Lottie's words of warning to her was still in her mind, but with Ben and the others still not returned, she did not know who else in the camp to tell, besides her husband and Andrew. She hoped that perhaps Andrew would have been able to warn Washington, though she had not seen any future-person enter Washington's tent since she arrived. Mary tried hard to hide her worry, keeping herself occupied with as much of the tasks needing to be done at camp, as possible, along with caring for Thomas.

Lottie, on the other hand, continued to listen to those around the camp, occasionally telling her of what was happening. It seemed that the young woman not only was a spy of sorts working with the Ring, but knew some things about the Ring – or at least knew that she, Anna had Ben's confidence. It was part confidante to her that she listened and advised the young woman, but also curiosity – she never thought Ben would recruit someone so young and barely over the cusp of womanhood.

When she had told Andrew of Lottie's warning about the camp, she had also found out that the Sackett family's descendant, Natalie Sackett, had been the one shot while protecting Washington in Boston last year. She remembered Ben had been writing a coded letter to Natalie Sackett during his last night in New Haven.

She also remembered his rather annoyed look at her presumption that the woman he was writing to was his woman. She had apologized to him later about her presumption, but considering Caleb's bark of laughter during that attempt at teasing Ben, she wasn't sure what exactly to make of it. She couldn't tell whether or not Ben was telling the truth about the woman he had wrote to inquire about the status of Boston or after her health. Time lines apart, if Caleb was actually telling the truth, and this Natalie Sackett was Ben's woman, then she would have to thank her for convincing Ben to utilize women within the Ring.

Her signal days on Setauket may have come to an abrupt end, but she was glad that Ben did not discard the usefulness that she continued to provide. It would also explain why Ben had decided to recruit not just men, but also women as spies – including the surprise of Margaret “Peggy” Shippen Arnold. She knew that a couple of years before Ben had gone off to Yale, his notions of women had begun to separate their close friendship. This Natalie Sackett, if she was anything like Ben's mentor, or even young Lottie, was a formidable woman. Anna found herself smiling slightly in pride – not just for the fact that Ben had a woman to temper him and his thoughts, but for the role Sackett encouraged others including Anna herself, to do.

As she shook her head out of her wandering thoughts, she looked back down at the missive she was writing. Just as she was finishing it, she heard footsteps behind her and she heard her husband call out, “Anna?”

“Selah,” she greeted, standing up and blowing on the ink to make it dry faster. As soon as it was dry, she folded it up – she would have to go back to the tent where Andrew, Mrs. Sackett, and a man who looked just like Ben's father but clearly was not, were. The wax was there, and it would be easier to slip in the letter with the bundles that the Sackett family sent out.

Stepping further away with her husband, she saw him gesture to the letter, asking, “Writing to friends of ours?”

“No,” she shook her head as she indicated that they should head towards the temporary Sackett Apothecary tent. “Just informing certain persons in Boston about what happened to New Haven and Mrs. Arnold.”

Selah immediately stopped walking, causing her to pause as well and return to his side. Looking up at him, she heard him ask, “Did Tallmadge ask you to do this?”

“No,” she said, and it was the truth.

She didn't know if Ben had written to the two agents in Boston that Peggy Arnold had contacted over the winter with regards to General Arnold's eldest son. Knowing that Ben would probably be slightly annoyed, she thought it more prudent to let the two agents, whom she only knew by their initials from the code book encryption she had seen in Mrs. Arnold's letters, know of the situation. Or rather, let them know what happened to Mrs. Arnold after New Haven. Excising Mrs. Arnold from the activities of the Ring was supposed to be left up to Ben, but he was not here to make the decision, and Anna knew that she needed to take steps to protect not only herself, but also her husband, Abe, _and_ Mary and Thomas.

Of course, Mrs. Arnold only knew her and Mary by their aliased surnames, Lawson and Underhill, respectively. She could identify them by sight, but only with false names. Still, she didn't want the Boston agents to contact Mrs. Arnold with inquiries, even in code. Considering what she heard discussed during the briefing with most of the Ring's agents, New York was dangerous, even more so when she had briefly lived there. How Townsend and the others in the city still have not been caught yet was a miracle and a testament to their skills in itself.

“Anna,” Selah began, but fell silent and shook his head slightly before resuming walking towards the tent.

“Selah,” she said, not following him and causing him to stop and turn back. “I want to remain with the camp.”

Silence answered her statement as she saw a frown grace her husband's expression. That silence was broken by a slight incline of his head as she heard him say, “Had we not been through what we been through in the past two years, I would have said differently. Had I not seen you do what you do for Ben and for the Ring, then I would have also said differently. Had I not spoken to Ben prior to his departure, then I would have said differently. I ask, though I don't expect you to have an answer for me, is this what truly interests you?”

That question was accompanied by a slight gesture of his hand, and Anna bit her lip as she looked around for a moment, taking in the various white canvas tents in the immediate vicinity. Further away were the mottled green ones that the future-people of the US Army lived in, and ringed in various areas were the multi-colored blanket tents of the camp followers. Noisy, and not comfortable-looking – or at least certainly not to the standards she and Selah maintained in the two taverns and homes they had owned thus far – it was home for those who fought for their freedom.

“Where will you go, Selah?” she asked, focusing her attention back on her husband.

“Perhaps Philadelphia,” he answered. “Having seen the conditions of camp, along with what the British and Britannian forces are capable of, I feel that my voice would lend an ear or more.”

“To support or go against this integration?” she asked, curious.

“I have yet to make a decision on that,” he admitted. “But please know, Anna, that everything I will say to Congress and those who will listen will only be to protect you. However, I cannot leave without asking you to join me there.”

“Selah...” she began, half-smiling, half in tears that were brimming on the corners of her eyes.

She was suddenly engulfed in the warm, strong arms of her husband, who held her tightly. No words needed to be exchanged between either of them, both understanding just how changed their marriage, their relationship was now. Anna was grateful that Selah was giving her a choice in the matter, whereas had this happened even a year ago, she thought that she would have to extensively detailed plead for him to allow her to stay. Now, it was just a simple stated observation that allowed both of them to come to terms with each other. Of course, she knew that she could never fully assuage her husband's worries, and neither could she for his safety on the road to Philadelphia.

“Awww, Mom and Dad are making up after arguing with each other... how sweet. So lovely... or as the apparent slang in the early twenty-first century says: totes adorbs. Whatever the hell that means.”

And just like that, the spell between them was broken as both she and Selah glanced towards the source of the voice. Their descendant, Andrew, was standing at the nearest campfire, seemingly having dumped pine cones or something into the campfire. As annoyed as she was in having her and Selah's quiet moment interrupted, she knew that she could not be – this was a military camp after all, and any person could have done what Andrew had done in a much ruder fashion.

However, it was Andrew, and as strange as it was, the young man felt more like family to her in the past few months, than when they had initially met. When she and Selah finally had a son, she hoped that their son would be as polite and well-mannered as Andrew – the skills and former duties of assassination for MI6 not withstanding.

“Why Agent Strong,” she began, letting Selah go and taking a step towards the agent, placing her hands on her hips as a bout of mischievousness swept over her. “Are you implying that something else should have happened? Perhaps we should have resolved our argument in a more private setting? A more, perhaps, intimate setting?”

She heard Selah cough in embarrassment, as she saw Andrew grin, knowing that she had struck true with her words. It was delightfully entertaining in a strange sense, to work out the double-meanings behind her descendant's witty words at times. While many of it implied a more ribald mind that she didn't think Andrew had, she knew what he was deliberately doing – training her to listen carefully in the espionage business.

“I'll have to up my game then, Mom,” Andrew stated, nodding in acquiescence. “You're picking this up faster than I anticipated.” She saw him nod towards Selah, asking, “What about you, Dad?”

Immediately the mischievous atmosphere that had fell around her dissipated as soon as she glanced back to see Selah's expression serious and not wholly embarrassed as he had been a few moments ago. Her husband did clear his throat before saying, “I will be departing for Philadelphia soon, Agent Strong. I wish you and your fellow agents the best of luck, and expect you to ensure that Anna is protected until either the war's end or your departure from this era.”

“Well, as much as I want to complain about your mood killing words, Dad, I can't,” Andrew cheerfully answered before taking on a more serious look. “Don't worry, I'll have both of your backs, because I can't exist until you guys start making babies.” She saw him pause before grinning again, this time lightly saying, “Which I hope you guys get to it soon!”

This time, Selah was not the only one to color or cough in embarrassment, as Anna felt her cheeks burn. The young man truly had no shame.

* * *

_Setauket, Long Island (yay, Burn Gorman is back!)_

 

“That's absurd.”

“I agree,” Hewlett spoke up, folding his hands together as he gave an expectant look over towards the two people he least wanted to see, much less be present in Setauket. One Simcoe was enough, even if the man had unexpectedly shown up sans clothes at the doorstep to Whitehall a few weeks ago.

Hewlett had almost immediately wanted to arrest and send the man away and back to New York, with his complaints as to the ridiculousness of such an officer presenting himself, but then Simcoe had begun to talk about the strangest of things. Richard, ever curious, had also then come to the door, and had proposed the radical idea of perhaps this Simcoe was not who they thought it was. He knew that Richard disliked Simcoe as much as he did, but considering what they had caught glimpses of while in New York and during the Battle of Setauket, perhaps there had been merit to Richard's words.

For the few minutes they considered it, it was enough for Andre, or Director Andre as he had presented himself and not as Major Andre, to arrive. The man's explanation was simple and clarified the fact that the unclothed Simcoe was a descendant of the Lieutenant Colonel Simcoe they knew, though the man was ill. Hewlett's anger had grown upon hearing that Simcoe had been promoted quite high up in the ranks, while he still languished here as a mere Major.

It was showing now, the difference between their ranks, and Hewlett was still incensed that he did not have the authority to intercede on Lieutenant Colonel Simcoe being billeted here at Whitehall for the time being. Now, the man was making his and Richard's life, by extension, more miserable by accusing and spreading a debasing rumor about Richard's son, Abraham.

As much as he wanted to get rid of Simcoe – both of them – he did not have the authority, and knew that if he wanted to continue to administer law and order to this section of Long Island, he would have to maintain appearances. “What physical proof do you have, of Abraham's collusion or activities of spying?” he asked, clasping his hands behind him.

He would be damned if the other Simcoe, the civilian one, was merely accusing Abraham of spying for the rebels out of spite. It seemed that both Simcoes disliked Richard and him, which just served to further his anger. He wouldn't have put it past it that this 'warning' that the civilian Simcoe had given them, all but accusing Abraham of spying for the rebels, was another excuse to get both him and Richard riled up.

After Director Andre had left for God only knew where, citing that there were some things he needed to take care of upon hearing about the disaster at Fort West Point, Richard had drafted a letter to Colonel Cook. The Magistrate had hoped to appeal to the man to bend those in British High Command to remove both Simcoes from Setauket. Hewlett had not known about the letter until confronted about it by the military Simcoe.

He had passed it off as an excuse as a concern about the supplies that Simcoe and his Rangers were consuming – which was true – and that with the recent defeat at West Point, perhaps Simcoe's military leadership was needed elsewhere. How wrong he had been in that assumption, for it had been then, that Simcoe had stated that since he was ranking officer in Setauket, he was staying for the time being while British High Command regrouped in the aftermath of the defeat at West Point.

Now, unfortunately, the answer that he was hoping to hear about the accusation that Abraham was a spy, was not the simple excuse of happening to find him among Patriot sympathizers. Richard's son, daughter-in-law, and grandson were still missing, as was Anna, but because coastal Connecticut was rife with Skinners, Cowboys, and bandits, information about searching for missing persons was scarce. Hewlett maintained that Abraham was still alive, and his man, young Creighton, had occasionally sent him reports, detailing possible sightings, though that had become infrequent before and after West Point.

“Ah, I shall have to return to New York to retrieve the evidence then,” Simcoe said, causing Hewlett to narrow his eyes slightly as he saw out of the corner of his eyes, Richard step forward in anger.

“Now see here--” Richard began.

“Richard,” he intervened before his friend could unleash his anger. “It's all right. Let Colonel Simcoe retrieve his evidence. I am curious to see what it is, and it may give us a clue as to where your son and his wife and child are.”

The anger did not die in Richard's expression, but Hewlett did see Simcoe's lips thin for a moment before giving both of them a slight nod. Turning slightly towards the civilian Simcoe, military Simcoe then said, “I trust you will have everything in order when I return?”

“Of course,” the man's counterpart answered, giving everyone in the room the same, thin, smile that the other Simcoe was wearing. It was eerie, and Hewlett felt a chill crawl down his back, just staring at the two.

Without another word to them, military Simcoe left, and it was only after a few minutes after the front door closed did the other Simcoe's smile abruptly die as he said, “Thank you Major Hewlett, and Judge Woodhull, for the sacrifices that you have made.”

“What?” Richard asked, as Hewlett frowned, expecting something to happen.

“Your son, daughter-in-law, and grandson,” Simcoe began, the expression and the light tone that sounded too close to his counterpart, “were last seen in New Haven this past winter. This was before I was killed--”

“Wait, you were killed? What?” Richard exclaimed.

“Details,” the man answered in a rather dismissive tone. “Unnecessary ones. But the key is, they were safe.”

“New Haven!” Hewlett exclaimed, remembering the battle report that had landed on his desk a few days ago. “It's been burned--”

“Yes,” the man answered, nodding, but gestured towards something behind them.

Hewlett turned, and almost shouted for guards, for he had not heard anyone else enter the house, especially from the back. Aberdeen, Richard's primary servant, would have said something... unless... “What is going on?” he asked, taking a few steps back, just as Richard did as well, stepping away from him.

The woman who had stood behind them was dressed in the oddest of clothing, with an assortment of blocky-looking weapons. The curious thing about her was the dark blue cap she wore, slightly crooked on her head, and the feather sticking out. She was a severe-looking woman, but at the moment, her arms were crossed over her chest, and she was glowering at them.

“As I said, Major Hewlett, thank you for your sacrifices. Your son was last seen by Commandant Sheridan of the Sheridan Rangers, exchanging himself as a Tory spy, in Lyme. He is alive, and with your help, I and the Commandant here will ensure that Setauket is no longer bothered by Lieutenant Colonel Simcoe or the Queen's Rangers.”

“Why should we trust you?” Richard asked, beating him to the punch.

“Why should I trust you to not breathe a word of this to any other British officer?”

“Treason?!” Hewlett hissed, narrowing his eyes slightly.

The humorless smile that Simcoe gave them was unlike the violently delightful ones that his counterpart usually expressed. “Call it self-preservation. The Commandant and what is left of her forces are escorting me south. Surely you've read General Arnold's rather extensive dissertation about the mixing of 'witchcraft forces' and colonial ones. The New York region is becoming restless.”

“Yes,” he answered. Having only been exposed once, possibly twice to actual forces, the two Simcoes and this 'Director' Andre not withstanding, there was some merit to Arnold's words. However, he also saw the detriment to the man's words, and thus could not pass judgment whether or not it was the right thing to do.

“We'll leave tonight, Major,” Simcoe stated. “And since my counterpart has been tasked to keep an eye on me, he'll return to find that I, and the laboratory that I command, are gone. Just inform him that I have gone south, and he will follow.”

“Just like that?” Richard asked, skeptical.

“Just like that,” Simcoe answered, nodding once.

* * *

_Somewhere along the southern coast of Connecticut..._

 

There was no point to the war anymore, at least that was what Robert Rogers thought to himself as he halted his robotic horse by a creek. The mechanical beast dipped its head down towards the cold water, as if to drink it, but didn't even take one greedy lick. He watched it for a few minutes as it just seemed to swing its head side to side in a slight manner, imitating the motion of a horse drinking from a stream.

As fascinating as the weapon he carried, along with the horse he rode was, the promise from the future Tallmadge was broken, Akinbode had deserted sometime before the attack on New Haven, and the Iroquois native had headed north to tend to some issue with regards to the Confederacy. He was angry and thoroughly annoyed at being led to false hopes and promises, but dragging his arse back to British lines and pledging allegiance to them was not in the cards. He had not even deigned to fully participate in the attack on New Haven, only ensuring that Lieutenant Brewster and the woman who had saved Brewster's life were kept alive until they were ferried into New York.

Now, seemingly free to do what he wanted after hearing about the mad plan to rescue the Lieutenant and the woman, he had been sent out here to continue the deception of being a loyal British patrolman. He supposed that he could easily travel to Westchester see the result of the trade--

The distant sounds of someone running through the brush and woods, heedless of the noise it created, snapped him out of his thoughts. Tugging on the reins of his robotic horse, he turned the horse around and waited, listening carefully while placing one hand on his laser rifle's holster – ready to draw and shoot if necessary. It sounded like it was one person charging haphazardly through the woods... tall, running and with a limp, from the sounds of snapping branches freshly grown on top of brush. The noise was also coming from the east.

Scanning from northeast to southeast, Rogers only had to wait a few more minutes until his quarry showed up. His eyes widened slightly as he saw the blood red jacket, muddied breeches, and the various amounts of bramble, pine, and dead leaves stuck all over the place on the person charging through the woods. Westchester was southwest of where he currently was, not east. Westchester was where Tallmadge was supposed to have captured Arnold and made the trade... or was it?

“Aye, you look like you're in a spot of trouble, General,” he stated out loud, catching the man's attention. In the relatively quiet woods, he didn't have to raise his voice loudly to sound over the man's noisy escape (it looked like Arnold was escaping).

Arnold looked up like a rabbit who had just noticed hunters closing in upon it, skidding to an ungraceful halt. Unfortunately, because of the speed in which he was running at, Rogers saw Arnold skid and slip on the wet layer of leaves below the thin layer of dry ones, landing rather painfully on the ground. Sighing to himself in annoyance, Rogers maneuvered his horse towards Arnold, slowly enough to give the man some semblance of dignity in recovering, even though he really did not want to.

“Give me that horse, Major Rogers,” Arnold immediately demanded.

“This horse?” Rogers asked, leaning slightly over to stare the man down. “After what you've published in the gazette, you're willing to ride one of these beasts?” He patted the side of his false horse, giving the man a rather unkind smile.

“Never mind you that,” Arnold ground out, incensed. “Just give me the horse. It is imperative that I return to New York City with all haste.”

Rogers considered denying the man his demanding request, knowing that he had the advantage at the moment to make or break the man. However, there really was no point in it, as his thoughts returned to his initial ones: there was no point in this war for him anymore. He was not going to regain his command, and aiding the Continental spies was not what he wanted to do for the rest of the war. He wanted to be on the front lines, to fight, not to shuttle information back and forth.

“Then the horse is yours, General Arnold,” he said, getting off of the beast and making a rather elaborate show of offering it to Arnold. Stepping away as the man growled slightly at him and snatched the reins from his hands, he didn't even bother helping the man up the horse.

No other words passed between the two as Arnold kicked the sides of the horse and it sped off. Rogers watched it and the man leave until they were beyond specks within the woods. He then brought his laser rifle forward from its back holster and looked at it before shrugging.

* * *

_Home of the legend of the Headless Horseman, Sleepy Hollow, New York_

 

It was dirty, disgusting, and downright sacrilegious, as Ben heard the ghost of his father's stern voice in his mind speak to him, admonishing him as to what he, Samantha, and Benji had done. Abe had tried to helped, but couldn't complete the initial assembly of his rifle before stumbling away to retch. As for the five dragoons remaining, they prepared the other half of the plan that had come of the combining of ideas between him and his counterpart.

Knightmare, he called this mission – 'operation' as his counterpart had stated – a derivative and play on 'nightmare'. A cross between the honor they had left as soldiers, and the sacrifice that their fellow soldiers and others who had been killed at Lyme, were about to perform. It was dishonorable, in a sense, as to what they were using their dead for. At the same time, it was the only way they could ensure that all nine of them returned to friendly lines, alive and hopefully unhurt.

The Brewsters-two had been sent via the cart that Natalie and the Third Section member had pulled along the road. Though it was a terrible situation, Ben would not have suggested it so, if there were any other way. The Brewsters-two had been placed among the bodies of the dead that Natalie and her associate had collected from Lyme. Displacing several dead bodies from the cart had lightened the load – enough for Natalie to take the Brewsters-two back to Fort West Point with all haste. He hoped that they made it without incident, and that the British forces would be compassionate enough to let the mostly dead through to their final resting place.

He shook his head slightly to jar himself from his thoughts. Pushing in the last of the fingers he had cut off of the dead Sheridan Ranger who had been killed sometime during the ensuing chaos at Lyme, he then snapped the weapon close as his counterpart had taught him to do. In a way, he was glad that he had been witness to how the three women had taken apart the laser rifle that had contained their General Putnam's hand. It had been the first of many of oddities and strangeness to his life, and at the moment, it felt like a lifetime ago.

The ear-tingling whine of it powering up tickled his teeth as he holstered it to his side, and pulled out his rigged laser pistol, flintlock pistol, and flintlock carbine. Checking his powder and musket balls, he reholstered all of his weapons in the appropriate spots. To get them out of this situation, the laser rifle and pistol would be his primary weapon; the flintlocks, secondary. He knew that they should conserve the ammunition for the future weapons, but they could not afford to be picky. While he had never fired the weapons before, he had seen them in action quite a number of times, and thus knew how to treat and handle such weapons.

He looked up and gestured for one of his dragoons, Corporal Pullings, to help him drag the dead body to the spot where they needed it to go. As he and the corporal hefted the dead Ranger and dragged him across dead leaves, dirt, and fallen branches, he saw in the distance, other bodies stuffed with kindling already hefted up.

It was a macabre sight to behold, hence the play on the name – as the dead were hung or draped all over tree branches. The kindling stuffed under the dead's clothing would provide a firestarter for the forest fire they were going to set off. Elsewhere, he could see the rest of his men, along with Abe, Samantha, and Benji finishing their preparations.

Stopping at the base of a broad oak tree that had many branches, he eased the dead man down and began to stuff his clothing, pockets, everything that he could find, full of dead leaves and small branches. Pullings, meanwhile, had begun to tie a rope around the body. As soon as both he and the corporal were done with their tasks, Pullings swung the end of the rope around the strongest branch on the tree. Together, the two of them hefted the body up into position before tying off the rope.

Rejoining the others, he crouched down and readied his rifle, as the hum of the weapons around the nine of them was loud enough to be mistaken for buzzing bees. “Winds out of the southeast,” he stated. “Fire at the bodies towards the northwest. That will be our way out once the inferno climbs.” Turning to Abe, he said, “Abe, stick close to Samantha.”

“Got it,” his friend answered in a curt tone, booking no argument.

There was still a haunted look in Abe's eyes. He had seen Abe take a look at the bodies in the cart before Natalie had left. One of the bodies had been Mari Woodhull. She had not been one of the dead bodies they had used, but despite his frustration at the situation, he had not had to repeat his words said in Lyme to Abe. The look in Abe's eyes was one that he recognized in many other soldiers who had seen too much. Instead, he let his friend be, having seen him bend over the dead woman's head for a moment, murmuring some words that were most likely a prayer to God.

He had initially ordered Abe to leave with Caleb and the others, but surprisingly, Natalie had advised that they keep the cart as light as possible. It was already harrowing enough to carry the Brewsters-two across no-man's land and towards the ferry between Stony Point and Verplank's Point. That, and his memory of Abe being a hothead during their escape from Lyme, was enough to rescind his order to Abe.

“Make ready and aim,” he ordered, as nearly as one, they sighted down their rifles, using the fascinating zooming capability the rifles had to accurately pinpoint the location of three of the positioned bodies in the northwest.

“Fire!”

Nine bolts of blue lanced out and pierced the bodies, igniting them. As the flames began to greedily lick the kindling, Ben was already shuffling back towards the next position. The others were doing the same, as they took up as best of hiding spots as possible. While there was the great possibility that the flames could also surround them and trap them, Ben was somewhat hopeful that British forces would arrive before that could happen.

Glancing up as he saw his counterpart begin to climb a birch that had some pine trees seemingly trying to crowd and rob it of its light, he saw one of his dragoons do the same to another cluster of trees. Both of them were the lookouts and the ambushers from on high. Slipping himself into a knot of trees, he crouched on the ground, looking around and ready for the next phase of the plan. The smoke that was already rising and thickening from the flames in the northwest were starting to blacken and rise. It wouldn't be long...

And it wasn't, as a few minutes later, he felt the ground shake with the thundering of hooves. The whinny of horses, along with the crackling of the fire that was growing consumed the relative silence. He could see specks of the riders thundering through in the distance, and when the hooting of an owl – sounded by his counterpart – indicated that more than the necessary amount of horses they needed to steal had gone through to investigate, he raised an arm.

Putting up his own rifle and leaning it against the dirt mount in front of him, he sighted through, and aimed at the bodies towards the southeast. Flinging his arm down, nine bolts of blue sliced through the air, hitting their targets true. He saw the other riders, bearing the colors and accessories of the combined forces of Tarelton, Delanceys, and British regulars, react wildly to the bolts hitting the strung up bodies.

He just happened to catch Tarelton, tall and dark with a cruel snake-like look upon his face, looking down in his direction. The flames from the southeast sprung up and licked the trees in the area. The inferno was growing faster than what the separated force could contend with, and he saw the British forces retreat for a moment, trying to find a way through without going straight into the rapidly burning forest. He grimly smiled – it would take the majority of them a while to, especially with how fast and hot the fire was already spreading and burning.

“2nd Light, to the rear!” he shouted, tearing his eyes away from the sight as thick smoke begun to settle in, watering his eyes slightly. They had to snatch the horses and get out before they too, were caught in the ring of fire.

Clipping the laser rifle to its holster, he pulled out his flintlock pistol and charged up the ridge. All around him, the others were doing the same. Catching the nearest British cavalryman off guard with a wild cry, he fired his pistol, partially unseating the man. Slamming into the side of the horse with as much as force as he could, the soldier toppled over and off of the horse.

Ben didn't waste any time as he snatched the reins of the horse tight to keep it from running off, and climbed onto it. Quickly holstering his flintlock pistol, he unholstered his carbine and kicked the flanks of his horse. It sprung forward, whinnying in fright and surprise, unused to such actions from a different weighted rider. He had control over the beast though, as he guided it through the burning woods, and saw in the distance, Abe and Samantha. Abe had been helped onto a horse, but Samantha was still grounded, and there were three cavalrymen coming towards her.

Sighting down his carbine, he aimed a little higher than he normally would, and fired just as his horse's two front legs completely crashed into the ground, driving him slightly forward and down. The first of the three horsemen was hit in the shoulder and completely unseated. Quickly reaching back for a powder and ball, he tore open the packet and timed his pouring into the flashpan carefully with his horse's cantering gait. He then poured the rest of the powder into the barrel and shoved the ball and paper into the tip of the barrel. Ramming it down with the stick and placing the stick back in its usual area, he sighted down yet again.

Keeping his breath steady, he timed the shot again, and fired. The second horseman rocked back, hit in the stomach, before slumping forward. Reloading his rifle for the third time, he sighted down and fired for the final time. Downed by a headshot, the third soldier fell back, legs tangled in the stirrup and reins as the horse dragged him.

Seeing that Samantha and Abe were not in immediate danger in the minute that had elapsed between his first and final shots, he heard the telltale _pew-pew-pew_ of the laser rifles echoing and complementing the crackling roar of the forest fire. He glanced to his back, seeing his men following after him, while to his right, Benji was firing away with his laser rifle, setting more of the forest on fire.

“On me!” he shouted, catching their attention, as he turned towards the northwest and towards freedom.

With his men flanking him on either side, Abe and Samantha nestled within the group, and his counterpart bringing up the rear, they tore through the columns of searing heat and towering flames. Occasionally, Ben had to wrench his horse to the right or left to avoid falling branches of flames, but with the wind continuing to blow the smoke high and clear, the nine of them eventually made it out of the forest fire.

Coughing as somewhat fresh air and less smoke swirled around them, Ben did not slow them down. The British forces would be catching up with them sooner rather than later, even with walls of flames temporarily blocking them. Holstering his carbine, he brought out the laser pistol, knowing that even though it was not as accurate as the rifle, the future-forces needed the rifles more than the pistols. He was also hesitant to use the pistol, but if need be, they could easily build another inferno wall.

Unfortunately, it came down to that, as he heard Sergeant Davenport shout, “Sir, forces approaching to our south!” Glancing back after ducking so that he did not smack into a branch, he saw specks of black in the distance.

They could remain in the edge of the woods, where they could light things on fire with ease to deter and delay the British forces, or they could go as close to the cliff edges of the Highlands and get to the ferry with all haste. Making the decision, he holstered the laser pistol and turned slightly to shout, “Make to King's Ferry with all haste!”

“Sir!” his men acknowledged as they turned towards the cliff edge and rode as fast as they dared.

Up and down the rolling hills that followed the Hudson River they rode. Ben glanced back to see the specks growing ever so closer. It was the opportunistic _ptwot!_ of a flintlock grazing the left hindquarter of his horse that nearly sent him flying out of the saddle, as his horse screamed and bucked.

The halt from a nearly full gallop to stop was jarring, but he managed to hold on. He could hear the others shout in surprise, but as soon as he landed back in his saddle, he shouted towards them, “Keep going!”

Urging his horse forward again, he glanced back to see that those precious few seconds that he had nearly been thrown off had cost him. He could clearly see the first few cavalrymen in the lead, the Delancey cousins, leading the charge. He kicked the flanks of his horse again, but the damage was done – his horse refused to go into a full gallop to catch up with the others. He would be slowly fished in as a fisherman did whenever he caught something.

The only saving grace was that as he strove to catch up to Abe and the others, the crest of the next hill yielded the blessed sight of the ferry. He could see the first of the nine of them already leaping off of his horse, urging oarsmen towards a whaleboat while waving the flintlock pistol rather threateningly. Others of the small dragoon unit eventually joined him, and as he tore down the hill, he saw Abe, Samantha, and Benji scrambling to get into the boat as well.

“Cast off!” Ben shouted, gesturing wildly towards the oarsman at the tiller of the whaling boat that the others had jumped into. “Go!”

He leapt off his horse at the edge of the rickety docks, ducking as a flintlock volley peppered the ground all around him. Flecks of heated wood and dirt gouged up from the impacts and hit him as he continued to run. He saw his men rise up from within the whaling boat and fire a volley back at his pursuers. Those few moments of not being shot at was enough for him to run as fast as he could and _leap_ from the docks with all of his might.

The water was absolutely cold as he dove in and immediately kicked his legs to surface. A few hurried and strong strokes was all he needed to catch up to the ferry. Hands grabbed at him and hauled him in as the _ptwot-ptwot_ echoes of flintlocks plunked into the water a few yards behind him. Rolling into the boat, it rocked back and forth as the oarsmen continued to row, with the oarsman at the tiller continuing to guide it towards and up the center of the Hudson River.

As he shook his head temporarily clear of water, he looked up to see the various British soldiers turning back from their pursuit. They had now become the pursued as Continental forces manning the east side of the river near King's Ferry had been drawn out with the sounds of firing flintlocks. It seemed that in their zeal to capture the nine of them, the Delanceys had forgotten who controlled the Hudson Highlands now.

“You look like a drowned rat, Ben,” he heard Abe quip in a jesting tone as he sat up and made an attempt to squeeze his hair of the excess water. There was nothing he could do about his uniform at the moment, at least not until they reached the other side.

“More like someone's literal wet dream,” he thought he heard Samantha mutter under her breath.

It was however, loud enough to cause his counterpart to bark in laughter. Even though he didn't understand the significance of the comment, the fact that they were all safe and sound, and on their way back to West Point was a source of great relief. Arnold was lost to them, but Ben was confident that there would be more opportunities in the future to capture the traitorous man.

* * *

_At the same time, in Fort West Point_

 

It was the shouts for a medic, and the clatter of an unsteady cart pulling to a halt near the tent that Anna was currently in, that she got up from where she had been comforting Mary with the despairing news from the latest Royal Gazette. There was an article, published by a man named Rivington, who spoke of the great disaster that had befallen Patriot forces at Lyme. Anna had tried hard not to lose her composure at such news, and despite what had happened in Setauket between her and Abe, she had ended up trying to comfort Mary in her grief.

Poking her head out of the tent that she and Mary were currently sitting in, with Lottie having kindly taken Thomas to watch over him for a while, she saw a somewhat familiar-looking woman, and a man on the cart. The cart was being pulled by two donkeys, but the donkeys' eyes... they were unusually red in color. The cart was full of bodies, all of them looking quite dead, and she wondered why the woman was calling for medics for the dead.

That, was until she saw the future-forces, with one of them being a black man with prominently brightly colored hair that included a bright shade of green, hurry over. She saw them swarm the cart, before a familiar body was lifted off-- “Caleb!” she exclaimed, hurrying from the tent, heedless of Mary's inquiries as to what was happening.

It couldn't be, it just couldn't-- it wasn't. She stopped where she was as she saw a person with a giant red cross plastered on her helmet, along with a surgeon from the Continental side of the camp crowd around the stretcher bearing Caleb's body. Caleb looked absolutely pale and awful, as she saw crusted and dried blood ringed around his face, neck, hands – everywhere. His clothes were splattered with a liberal amount of blood as well, and the sight of her friend in such a terrible state made her want to retch.

The female medic had placed two fingers on the side of Caleb's neck, while the surgeon had bent down to hear and see if Caleb was breathing. There was a moment of silence that fell around the group, but that was swiftly broken as not a moment later, the surgeon started to issue orders. Those bearing the stretcher hurried away, with the surgeon following the stretcher.

Caleb was still alive, and Anna's heart soared for the news, but as another group brought a second person down – Caleb's descendant, Carrie, Anna's breath hitched. The woman looked so pale and grey that she thought Carrie was dead. She could see the black man with wild colored hair grasp Carrie's hands, bending down as if he were trying to encourage her to live. The medic made a few gestures, and left with those bearing Carrie on the stretcher – the black man followed closely. Anna could not tell if Caleb's descendant was still alive or not, and she prayed that the oddly delightful woman was still alive.

The frenzied actions in the previous minutes were also subsiding, as she saw the woman who had driven the cart with the man, gesture for the man to go take the donkeys somewhere. As others, both Continental and US Army began to slowly bring other bodies out from the cart, she knew that the rest were dead bodies. She watched as the woman directed those who carried the dead, towards the US Army side of the camp, though one of the bodies, a dragoon, was specifically carried to the Continental side of the camp.

Just as the last of the bodies was being offloaded, she caught a glimpse of a familiar hair color and an unexpected face. She blinked in utter surprise, hoping that her eyes were decieving her, but it was Mary's sudden, “Dear God Almighty,” whispered from next to her that startled her.

Mary suddenly rushed forward, and Anna had only a moment to catch up to her as the woman directing the body bearers to halt and lay the final body on the cart on the ground. “Lord have Mercy,” she couldn't help but utter as she stopped next to Mary and took a good look at the final body.

Mari Woodhull, the descendant of Abe and Mary, had been shot dead. She looked so eerily like her mother namesake that it sent chills down her back, just staring at the lifeless eyes staring up at nothing.

“No,” she heard Mary whisper in denial, before it was repeated over and over again until it became a half-wail, half-cry of sorrow.

Anna immediately caught her in her arms as she sank to the ground. Cradling the woman, she rocked Mary back and forth. Somehow managing to tear her eyes away, she looked up to see that the woman who had driven the cart had knelt down, with regret swimming in her eyes. “I'm so sorry,” the woman said. “There was nothing I could do to save her.”

“Abraham,” Mary managed to say in between muffled cries, despair coloring her. “Where is my Abraham?”

“Before I was ordered to return, your husband told me that she leapt in front of the bullet meant for him, and saved him. Last I saw of him, he, along with Major Tallmadge were still alive and unhurt.”

~~~

It was difficult, but ultimately, manageable – especially with the attention that Mary Woodhull had garnered with her actions at seeing Third Section member, Mari Woodhull, dead. Still, as he carefully extracted himself from the false bottom that he had built and hidden into a portion of the cart – where the cart drivers sat – he listened and watched carefully all around him.

While it would have been more comfortable to build the false bottom along the length of the cart, it was also the most obvious of moves that a rookie infiltrator could make. Thus, with careful crafting, and positioning of the cart near Lyme, he folded himself inside of the cramped space, patiently waiting for the right time to extract himself. The only time in which he had faced utter danger was when the unexpected arrival of the Third Section and the mechas they wielded, completely destroyed all semblance of the ordered chaos that he had had Lieutenant Colonel Simcoe order his men to engage in.

With everyone in the vicinity's attention elsewhere, especially on Mrs. Woodhull's cries of despair fading as she, along with Natalie Sackett, and Anna Strong took the body of Mari Woodhull away, it became quiet. He was his surprise at the fact that the clever leader of the Third Section had recruited the twin sister of his double-agent, Abigail Woodhull. He had never expected the scion of the Tallmadge family, Julian Alton-Tallmadge, to have nearly created the same mind-altering formula he had worked on for years.

Setting the knowledge aside, he finally slipped loose and landed gently on the ground, looking around as he pulled his overly large hat out from the cramped space as well. No one in the area shouted or reacted, too preoccupied. In Continental regular forces colors, he carefully rolled up and put the hat on. Faintly smiling to himself, he began walking towards the Continental side of the camp.

He would scout out the camp first, before making his move, knowing that he had a small, but great opportunity to carry out his mission: that is, to assassinate certain persons within the Continental Army's camp. After all, what better opportunity than now, to drastically change the future than with his own hands; the hands of Director John Andre of the Ministry of Intelligence, Section 6.

 

~*~*~*~

 


	35. Tall, Strong, and Brewed with Wooden Hulls

**Chapter 35: Tall, Strong, and Brewed with Wooden Hulls**

 

_The Big Apple (NYC)_

 

Robert Townsend was not envious of the position that the young man, Lieutenant Creighton of the Continental Army, occupied. Playing a double agent against the British Army was difficult, and he sometimes wondered if Creighton had to shoot at any allied forces whenever the man had been on patrol in southern Connecticut. Even now, as he watched the man walk up the road and towards the house of Margaret 'Peggy' Shippen Arnold, he did not envy the man's position at all. He much preferred listening and lingering in alleyways, being as unobtrusive as possible in collecting information about the British and Britannian forces.

Still, orders were orders, even if they did come from General Washington via Samantha Tallmadge. Samantha had left a few days ago to help with a mission being carried out somewhere in the region, and thus it was up to him and Creighton to carry out the tasks. Young Leigh Hattersfield had been granted relief from her duties. After he and the young officer completed their current tasks, Creighton was due to take her back down to Philadelphia. Creighton had also been granted leave to return to General Greene's service by Washington himself. Soon, it would only be him alone again, until the oddly cheerful, and whimsical-like woman from the future returned to the city.

The Ranger, Rogers, had departed for parts unknown as soon as Samantha had left, not even deigning to give an excuse for his leaving. Robert didn't care though – the man had always tried his patience whenever he was among them. Colonial Ranger or not, he knew that at least Rogers had enough integrity to maintain his silence amongst the secret keepers.

At the present though, he saw Creighton in his British uniform, pause where the guards in front of the gates that led to the house where the Arnolds lived. Some unobtrusive, calm gestures were made by the young man, as Robert saw him explain his reasoning there – courier purposes. The guards allowed him through, and Robert could not help but mentally sigh in relief. It was all because of what happened with Woodhull and Mrs. Strong when they had been living in the city that caused him to be a little more paranoid than he usually was.

Though Samantha had given him information about the two and their families, the recent conversations among the folks on the street pointed to New Haven being completely burnt down. He had not had a chance to find out from Samantha on the details of what exactly happened in New Haven, or whether or not his friends had gotten to safety. Still, he knew that he could not linger on worrying over them – there was nothing he could do at the present except keep his head down.

Creighton knocked on the door and it opened to reveal a servant-slave who answered, took the letter from the young man, before nodding. The door closed, and Creighton left. As soon as the young man had turned down the predetermined street, that was when Robert slowly picked himself up and off the ground, reaching out to grasp Leigh Hattersfield's hand as well. Gently taking the young woman by the hand, she nodded with a sullen look upon her face and followed his lead.

Together, the two of them shuffled further into the alleyway, though Robert sensed that the movement was not entirely feigned by the young woman. She was still grieving for the loss of her brother, and thus had to be treated in a delicate manner. He was glad that Washington had discharged the young woman from her duties – she could do no more good as a spy in this dangerous city.

It took a little longer than he liked, but he did not lose his patience. As they entered another alleyway, deep within the heart of the city – far and away from curious eyes, he saw Creighton standing at the end, waiting for them. Wordlessly he gave the young woman over to the officer. “Safe travels, Lieutenant,” he stated.

“Thank you,” the man answered. “You be safe as well, Townsend. Best of luck and fortunes with your duties here. Until we meet again.”

* * *

_Fort West Point_

 

“You _had_ General Arnold?”

Washington could not hold back his disbelief, but managed to keep his expression neutral as he stared at his Head of Intelligence. Never mind that he had not sanctioned the exchange of prisoners at all, even in the clandestine manner that Tallmadge had been attempting to do. The tale told to him certainly did explain where the officer had been for the past few days, and why it had taken longer than normal for scouting reports and the like to make its way to his desk. With Hamilton gone to pass on orders to regional commanders, Laurens was the only aide he had who could effectively process the joint information. Lafayette was with the French and Russian delegation, who were due to arrive in a few days.

“Yes, sir,” Tallmadge answered, but thankfully, did not try to deny his failure at allowing Arnold to escape with any excuse.

He knew that there was no excuse for the escape of Arnold from custody – the chaos described to him when a third party had attempted to disrupt the exchange of prisoners seemed all too eerie and familiar. It had happened before, and the last time, had involved people peripherally associated with Tallmadge as well. Once was pure luck and Providence that escape had been successful, twice, he was getting slightly suspicious. Twice now, the British or Britannians had gotten close enough to attempt to take out his Head of Intelligence and blind the Continental Army.

“The five hundred pounds,” he said, holding back his question as to whether or not Tallmadge had planned to exchange Arnold for one of the prisoners. He knew the young man well enough to know that he would not have done anything like that.

“Gone, lost, or taken, sir,” Tallmadge stated. “Contributions were from my own, along with several others, including two robotic horses.”

He nodded. The loss of such money was great, but he would be able to report to Congress that such a monetary loss was not from their coffers. He just hoped that it would not affect Congress to continue to withhold pay, for he had a feeling that his friend, Nathaniel Sackett, may have contributed the majority of the exchange money. Of course, he would never ask him about it, for it was not polite conversation, but he hoped that it had not put a strain on his friend's resources.

“Dismissed, Major,” he stated.

As soon as his Head of Intelligence left, he heard the side door to his office open, as Nathaniel shuffled in. Giving his friend an expectant look, he only saw him blink twice before shrugging – there was nothing to add to the observation that his friend had been conducting. He usually did not have Nathaniel sit in and listen through a closed door to briefings, but considering the injuries that several agents and death of at least one agent under his Head of Intelligence's command, he needed to know why. Tallmadge may have been cleared of all charges against him during the taking of West Point, but Washington needed to know if he was still mentally fit.

This strange war was a long one, and it seemed that they were approaching the night that was hopefully the darkest before the eventual dawn. What that dawn would bring was something that even he didn't know. With the loss of agents, ambush, and unauthorized exchange, he had needed to make sure that his Head of Intelligence was still fit to perform his duties.

“Your opinion, Nathaniel?” he bluntly asked.

“Twice now for an open attempt at assassination,” his friend answered before shrugging. “Not counting the trouble he and his agents tend to stumble into, his reputation is almost as notorious as your own, George.”

Washington frowned but did not deign to answer that quibble with anything. Instead, he asked, “In your professional opinion, is he still fit to carry out his duties?”

“What do you think?”

Had it been any other person under his command who had thrown those words back at him, he would have immediately dismissed the person, but there were only two people whom had the gall and reasons to say such an accusatory question back at him. One was his wife, whom he sought her opinion whenever something troubled him that he could not resolve on his own. The other was Nathaniel, for his expertise in these matters.

“His acumen and attention to his duties are still true and sharp,” he answered. “At this juncture, it would also be unwise to rein him in. He had been charged with his duty, and though the capture of Arnold was unconventional and escape regrettable, it shows that Arnold can be captured. I am of the mind to allow him to take any liberty needed to perform his duties and ensure the most accurate of information. He would not have traded Arnold anyways for a prisoner, friend or not.”

“I agree,” his friend answered before taking a step forward. “The serum,” he heard him, as Nathaniel pushed a folio of notes towards him.

Taking it, he opened it up and read through the first page on top – a brief summary of the notes, methods, and contents of what the Sackett family had been doing thus far, with Alton-Tallmadge's cooperation.

“It cannot be completed then?” he asked, frowning as he looked up to see his friend shaking his head.

“Not with what we have and made progress thus far,” Nathaniel answered. “We've hit a brick wall. We need whatever is on Long Island – this sighting of Deputy Director Simcoe by Mr. Roe... This Simcoe who was supposedly killed in New Haven this past winter.”

“Oh?” he asked, curious.

“This 'cloning' technique, or what they have salvaged from the flooded laboratories under the city,” the man continued to say. “According to Alton-Tallmadge, he theorizes that it is what created the flesh-and-blood hand of former General Benjamin S. Tallmadge, and possibly cloned the Deputy Director. What we need is a sample of Director Andre. It cannot be from Major Andre himself, due to what was told to me as 'shortened telomeres' that a clone has, but that the original copy does not.”

“Apart from the fingerprint samples, there is a difference between the Major and the Director, then?” he asked.

“Yes, but it is difficult to tell unless one has the materials and technology that the people from the future have.”

“New York then,” he said. “It is still our goal, and with a swift blow, it may also end this war once and for all.”

“Yes,” Nathaniel answered, nodding, but sniffed slightly as he paused, peering at him as if slightly lost in thought. “I ask this, though, George. Can you do it without the help of those future-people? Can you take New York City with just the Continental Army and our foreign allies?”

* * *

_Nightfall, New York City_

 

As cautious as he was, Robert had no orders from either Samantha or Washington to keep an eye on the Arnolds. Still, his curiosity got the better of him, as he wondered why Samantha had had them deliver a missive to Mrs. Arnold. The longer he had thought about it, the more it made sense – Mrs. Arnold had most likely been a spy within the employ of Washington. That revelation that washed over him with that realization and piecing together of Creighton's duties prior to his return to Philadelphia, was surprising.

He knew Mrs. Arnold and the three children with her had come from New Haven just before it had been engulfed in the fires of a devastating battle. Anna and Woodhull had been confirmed by Samantha to have been in New Haven prior to the attack, but had gotten to safety. Therefore, he knew it was probably safe to assume that Mrs. Arnold may have worked with Woodhull or Anna in their spying duties. The missive delivered earlier most likely contained orders of sorts.

The question now became: would Mrs. Arnold continue to be loyal to her husband or to the Patriot cause?

He was shaken out of his musings with the thundering of hooves and the startled whinny of a horse breaking the rather monotonous noise of the city's nightlife. A bay-colored horse had been halted rather roughly in front of the Arnolds house, but it was the eerily red eyes of the horse that belied that it was most definitely not normal. Still, the towering form of Arnold himself was already swinging himself off the horse, as Robert heard shouts and orders being spat out of the former-American-now-turned-British General.

He frowned and pulled the moth-eaten blanket around himself a little tighter as he watched Arnold charge up the steps to his home. With orders given, now was the time of decision for Mrs. Arnold. He could approach no closer, but what happened inside of the Arnolds' house in the next few minutes would be crucial.

~~~

Peggy stared at the flames as they licked their way up the logs, with the last of the parchment disappearing to ash and dust. At once, a loud commotion outside startled her from her reverie, but not a moment later, her front door was slammed open. She jumped and hurried to see what had caused the noise, only to gasp, “Benedict!” as she saw her husband angrily walk in.

“Dishonorable!” she heard him rage. “It is outrageous and completely underhanded! He'll pay for that! Both of them will pay for their humiliation and dishonorable conduct in this war!”

“Benedict,” she pleaded again, trying to calm him down as he strode into the sitting room and leaned against the fire place, seemingly glaring at the fire. “Benedict, what happened?”

It seemed that her voice managed to cut through the fog of anger that had wrapped around her husband. Despite his harsh words to her about his children, along with the many restrictions he had placed upon her after that and before he had abruptly left for Westchester, she still wanted to help comfort his ails. He had been her freedom, her release from the spy business, and even the words that she had read from the missive delivered to her by Creighton had confirmed that.

Washington had been succinct in dismissing her from service. It was on the honor that if she did nothing to agitate or compromise Patriot agents she had been in contact with, then he would never reveal her part within the Philadelphia debacle. It was an underhanded threat, and it angered her. But considering her husband's recent actions in arresting even the staunchest of tailors such as Loyalist Hercules Mulligan, she let Washington's silence become her own silence. Let the soldiers fight, but let the civilians, even spies such as she, live their lives out in peace.

But it was 'had been' that had remained in her mind since she had thrown the missive into the fire. Her husband's words and actions frightened her at times, and when they had been living together in New Haven, he had not even raised a hand against her. That had all changed since his defection from the Continental side, and moving to New York City. He had changed from the tender, loving man that she had known and written to – from her savior from espionage to her captor. There was so much she could say now to topple Washington and support Benedict in his role as Spymaster General, but he was incredibly dismissive of her suggestions that it infuriated her.

“Tallmadge,” her husband spat out, as if the name were a curse. “The man set a trap by following the lawyer, Underhill, to where I was supposed to meet him. Using a civilian as bait – the man has no comprehension of an honorable conduct of an officer!”

“Mr. Underhill is alive?” she asked, keeping her tone as calm as possible.

“As far as I know, yes,” her husband answered, shaking his head. “He's still possibly a captive of Tallmadge. I cannot believe it! The lengths that Washington and Tallmadge have gone to, to fight! Killing civilians and using those witchcrafts just to achieve any sort of victory! Is there no God upon judgment?!”

“Benedict...” she began, breaking as gently into his thoughts as she could. Even though he had focused his fury as he glared at her for interrupting him, she continued on. “Perhaps it is best to let Mr. Underhill be--”

“No!” he roared. “An example must be made. We must fight with out the dependency on such black magic. I will show Washington the real meaning of fighting with honor and free him and those under the influence of that white-haired witch!”

She saw him immediately spin from the fireplace and head towards the desk, yelling for their servant while taking a fresh piece of parchment out and dipping a quill in ink. “Benedict, the children are asleep!” she admonished.

“And you will make sure that they stay asleep!” Benedict harshly stated, before focusing his eyes on their servant who had entered from the kitchens. “It is time, Peggy, that you kept your end of the marriage contract. You will not concern yourself with my duties as Spymaster General, my monetary affairs, and my guests! Any frivolous spending will not be tolerated. You will bear more sons for me, teach and raise them correctly, and provide me the social means appropriate to my station. Those are your duties as my wife.”

Peggy stared at her husband, nodding stiffly only once as she tried hard not to clench her teeth in anger. Yet again, he had dismissed her caution, her worry. She knew that her husband's lawyer, Abraham Underhill knew Tallmadge and had most likely willingly participated in the trap set. Yet Benedict would not listen to her – it was as if he had become a monster she did not recognize at all. He had been her savior, he now was her captor.

“Run to General Clinton's house and give this to him,” her husband stated to their servant who had scrambled in as he blew on the parchment's ink to make it dry faster.

“But sir, its nearly midnight--” their servant began.

“It is urgent and cannot wait,” Benedict harshly stated. “The proposal of the formation of the American Legion, loyalists who are as sick and tired of fighting against the Devilry that now plagues our war, cannot wait. God waits for no man, and He has allowed me to escape from the Devil himself so that I may now serve Him and save the colonies.”

Delusions of grandeur aside, Peggy remained where she was, as she saw the servant take the sealed letter and dash out. She glanced over at the fireplace, with nothing of the missive she had received remaining. Washington had dismissed her from service in exchange for her silence, but ultimately she knew that the choice was up to her to maintain that silence.

Honor begot honor, but at the moment, Peggy considered breaking that unstated oath – not to give her dismissive husband information, but to warn Washington himself of what her husband had planned for him.

* * *

_Fort West Point_

 

It was simple, really, and frankly he was surprised at the lack of security around the fort and the encampment that spilled outside of it. Of course, the patrols in and around the camp were a nuisance, but the demeanor of even the patrolmen was not as alert as he thought it would be. It seemed that despite the discontent sweeping through camp, both the Continental and US Armies thought they were nigh invincible.

_Georgia, my darling,_ he thought to himself as he continued down a row of tents, headed towards his destination, _I would have thought you better than this. You, who always beat me in games to break out of our prison that was the laboratories that created us... how far you have fallen in ensuring that even your side of the camp was secure._

Not that he was complaining; he always delighted in the challenge that his fellow clone and experimental 'sister', Lieutenant General Georgia Washington, provided. This... this task that he decided to undertake on his own, rather than send the two remaining turned assassins to do the job, was a challenge within itself. There were so many targets of opportunity, some easier to get to than others – including either Washingtons – but his primary goal was to ensure that he himself continued to exist. Such that it was, playing with time...

As for his two turned assassins, while he was sure both would've been able to complete the task with little to no complications, the report from New Haven, mentioning the possibility of Third Section members garrisoning the port town, made him wary. West Point's failure was already a mess to clean up, as was making sure Arnold was controlled appropriately via the 'propaganda' he had written, but Third Section... That meant that the only person he considered a true threat to end the war, Third Section commander Julian Alton-Tallmadge, was most likely present.

During his scouting around the fort, he had not seen Alton-Tallmadge, but he had heard some oblique reference to the man. Apparently, the man had committed some grave violation of sorts that had resulted in his incarceration in the camp, along with the forced labor the man was performing. The tent in which Alton-Tallmadge was housed in at the moment was heavily watched by certain persons he knew to be sharp, and thus, the man would have a stay of assassination by his hand.

He knew not what Alton-Tallmadge was working on for the rebels, but he could give an educated guess at what it was. As much as he wanted to send Alton-Tallmadge's turncoat wife, Magdalena, to kill her own husband, such sweet justice would have to wait. Alton-Tallmadge deserved so much more than just the quick pain of a sniper's bullet tearing through his skull. The man deserved every torturous thing that had been done to him since childhood.

The two assassins were currently sent southwards to cause chaos among the ranks of the rebels. While he knew that this campaign would parallel the southern campaign of the original Revolutionary War all the way until Yorktown, he was counting on the gamble to work. Slowly, he would strip the rebels of their High Command with strategic assassinations, and allow the British to trounce them. Commanders marching their troops through and into the chaotic battles down south were more vulnerable than those who sat within their forts, such as the two Washingtons.

Ducking his head slightly, as he pulled the floppy hat over his head a little further, he absently scratched at the scruff that he had grown to disguise his face. There was no full face-mask for him to use this time – he had spent all of the remaining resources he had managed to salvage from the flooded lab to resurrect and reprogram the descendant of Lieutenant Colonel John Graves Simcoe. While incomplete in knowledge, he managed to gather enough of the necessary memories of Deputy Director Jonathan Simcoe, to allow the man to do what was necessary to recreate the serum.

What really irritated and angered him was the fact that sentiment from Commandant Sheridan had allowed her son, Benjamin, to blind and deceive all of them. That serum was most likely being modified by Alton-Tallmadge. As much as he wanted to dismiss or frankly, kill Sheridan for her incompetence, he had stayed his hand. She was the only geneticist who had comparable skills to Alton-Tallmadge to recreate the serum and enhance it. Both Lieutenant Colonel Simcoe and Deputy Director Simcoe had been tasked by him to keep an eye on the woman at all times. However, the serum was no where near ready, and thus, the agonizing death he had planned for Georgia Washington would have to wait.

At this juncture, he also knew that he could possibly kill George Washington. But killing the lauded commander of the Continental Army seemed so... uninteresting. He felt that it would be more appropriate, not to mention, fun, to kill him during battle. Should Washington engage and set Yorktown in motion, then it would also provide the perfect opportunity to strike. Thus, after this primary task, the chaos would afford him to assassinate other commanders – to cripple both the Continental and US Armies stationed at this fort.

He finally arrived at an intersection where there were just a little more guards, some of them armed with the laser rifles and dressed in the clothing of the US Army. Others held flintlocks, though he could clearly see that Continental and US forces guarding and patrolling in this particular section of the camp were wary of each other. It seemed that Arnold's declaration was getting to all of them – good. The more each side distrusted each other, the more fractures appeared.

United they stood, divided they fell – and he wanted the rebels to fall hard.

Strolling past the tent that contained his target, he continued on his way towards the edge of the camp. Nodding towards a couple of the patrolling men, he indicated that he had to do some business in the woods. They acknowledged it and took a few steps away. Heading towards a rather broad oak tree, he ducked behind and pulled out a tiny device. Carefully attaching it to the base of the tree, and then extending a weighted wire from it, he draped the end of the wire on a couple of strong but supple branches. Pressing a tiny button on the side of the device, he saw the wire wind back a little, shaking the branches slightly, before winding back out. There was also the issuance of sound – that of a normal person shitting bricks.

Carefully and very quietly, he left the area and took the long, pre-determined route back towards his target's tent. The canvas tent was thick enough that he was able to stay in the shadows of the firelight on the opposite side of the tent. There were no patrols within the vicinity, and the Continental guards were at the front of this tent. US Army guards were not present, though they were near the tent, down the line.

Listening closely, he heard the even deep breathing sounds of a person sleeping within the tent. Yet, he had also picked up on the sounds of a second person within the tent. Said person was not sleeping, and most likely a guarding the sleeping man. While normal conventions of the time would have extended some trust to the prisoner, especially of this calibre, to have some proper manners and decorum to not try to escape, he supposed that it was Lieutenant General Washington who 'suggested' the placement of a guard inside of the tent.

He would have to get rid of the guard first before he could assassinate his target.

Glancing down at the pocket watch he had acquired some time ago, he saw the seconds tick towards the twelve-o-clock position before the second hand moved one notch towards ten. At that precise moment, the device that he had left at the edge of camp exploded.

The resounding boom that echoed across the cliffs was loud enough to be heard from miles away, but within the vicinity of it, the silence that followed its aftermath was swiftly filled with noisy shouts and calls to arms. Flipping the backside of the canvas tent up slightly, he stepped in and immediately sought out the first of the two within the tent – the guard.

His eyes flew wide open as he saw that the guard, a young man from the future, was already half-way up his seat and reacting to his intrusion into the tent. However, before the young man could even bring the blocky pistol to bear, he was already lashing out with his foot – swifter and faster than the young man. Kicking and snapping the young man's wrist, he then stepped in and swiftly folded him with a punch into the gut. Grabbing the guard by the front of his clothes, he reached up and snatched the flying pistol out of the air. Shoving it against the guard's side, he fired twice.

Dropping the dead young man like a sack of grain, he then aimed the gun at his primary target, who had woken up with the explosion, managed to gather his wits about him during the brief fight with the guard, and had opened his mouth to call out for more guards. “I don't think so,” he stated, pointing the blocky pistol at the man.

His target immediately narrowed his eyes, but did not move from where he was. “How?” was all the man asked. “Those pistols and rifles... you stated that they were encoded to the hand print of their wielders. How are you able to use that young man's weapon?

Giving him a mirthless smile, he said, “You forget, that I had Agent Andrew Strong in my custody for a while. All assassins of MI6 were given override on weapons, even if they are now traitors to the Crown. It's also why I never deactivated Strong's hand print profile after he turned.” He briefly readjusted his grip on the gun, feeling the oh-so-thin layer of contact plastic against his own hand. That contact plastic that had been embedded with Strong's hand print

“Handy,” the man dryly stated before composing himself and slowly rose out of the bed he had been sleeping in. Standing at attention, sans his red jacket, the man looked every aspect of a British gentleman and officer. Even as a turncoat prisoner, he had to admit that his target had been treated with far more respect and dignity than he deserved.

“What now, Director?” the man simply asked, clasping his hands behind him.

“Now, Major Andre, it is time for you to die,” Director Andre stated.

* * *

_A few minutes before, on the other side of the camp..._

 

Considering the mounds of reports that littered his desk, and was even stacked on top of portions of his cot, Ben could only assume that Hamilton was not present in the camp. Otherwise, the reports would not have become this enormous. Hamilton, though prickly at times, was known to be thorough, meticulous, fast, and methodical whenever processing scouting reports and the like. However annoyed he was about the mounds of reports he had to process with haste and present them to his commander, he was also glad for such a distraction.

Melancholy seemed to grip the entire Culper-Culpeper Ring since their harrowing escape from Lyme and across Connecticut. He knew that Abe was somewhere in the camp, out of sight of most of the inhabitants, while Abe's wife was definitely hidden away. Mari Woodhull's corpse had been seen by people, and under the advise of Mr. Sackett, Abe and his family were keeping a low profile for now.

As for Caleb, his friend was resting in the infirmary on the Continental side – having been given laudanum to help him sleep and heal. While Ben was glad that they had gotten him back, he knew that the majority of the future-people were at the infirmary on the US Army side. Last he heard of Caleb's descendant, the news had not been good. As much as he wanted to abandon his duties in processing these reports, and go sit by Caleb's side, he did not. These reports helped to serve as a distraction from his worry about his friends' precarious statuses.

Unexpectedly, a gust of wind, along with the sound of his tent's flaps opening caused him to look up as he placed a hand on top of a stack of reports to prevent them from flying away. He was, however, already half-way out of his chair as he saw who had entered without permission. “Natalie!” he said, dropping his quill onto the desk as he hurried from the other side.

Tear-streaked and distraught-looking, her normally calm and composed demeanor told him that the worst had happened. He reached her and without a word, embraced her tightly, just as a fresh bout of sobs escaped her lips. He wanted to murmur that it was going to be all right, that her friend – and even his as he admitted it in his mind – was resting easier, no longer suffering, but the words were caught in his throat. Somehow, he could not bring himself to say such words that he had heard his father say countless of times to parishioners who had lost friends and loved ones.

Instead, he found himself squeezing his eyes shut as he felt her shudder and continue to cry, her voice muffled against his chest. His own chest felt tight with sorrow, anger, and grief. Lieutenant Carrie Brewster, dedicated soldier and friend, did not deserve such a fate so young, but Ben knew that he could not be angry at God for taking her life so soon. So many others, even before and after the future-people arrived, had paid the same price, including his dear friend, Nathan Hale. The only thing that he could do now was grieve and make sure that her sacrifice did not go to waste.

He didn't know how many minutes passed, but eventually, he could feel Natalie start to calm down, as little by little, she stopped shaking. He felt her pull back, and obliged, though neither let each other go. “I-I a-apologize,” Natalie stated, sniffling and trying to dry her tears.

He shook his head slightly – there was nothing for her to apologize for, but before he could ask why, she continued, saying, “Carrie... she's been put on ice... but for all intents and purposes, we don't even know if we bring her back to the future, that we can revive her. She didn't have a pulse when she went into ice.”

“Ice?” he asked, puzzled. No pulse meant that a person was dead, and Natalie's reaction had all but confirmed that.

“Preservation unit,” Natalie explained between sniffs as Ben took a hasty look around for a handkerchief of sorts to help alleviate the aftermath of her tears. “Military robotic horses have that capability, but the battery storage life for such a unit lasts only for a few months. Similar to pickling and salting dead bodies to ship across the ocean, except with the possibility to be revived.”

He decided not to press about Brewster's condition, for it was clear that Natalie thought of her friend as dead, with no hope of this strange, possible revival. “Has...” he began, swallowing slightly as he tried to drive away his own grief, “has anyone told Caleb yet?”

She silently shook her head. Nodding, he said, “I'll break the news to him--”

He didn't get to finish his thought as a thunderous explosion, too close to be from a sudden thunderstorm in the clear night sky, tore through the camp. Instinct honed by his years on the battlefield and by the appearance of these people from the future, overrode and shoved aside what sorrow he was feeling as both he and Natalie let go of each other. Dashing out of the small tent with Natalie hot on his heels, he skidded to a halt as he saw an enormous cloud of smoke framed by moonlight billow up from the edge of the camp.

In the distance, he could hear the shouts for water and of the alert that a fire was spreading. He only needed to glance over at Natalie, who had determination set in her eyes that did not betray anything of what had happened only a few minutes ago. Together, the two of them ran, picking up two pails and headed to the nearest trawl of water. There were already several hundreds of people doing exactly the same thing that he and Natalie were doing, but even with the chaos surrounding the camp, neither got to the origin of the fire.

Thick, eye-watering smoke poured through the camp, buffeted by the gentle breeze. Chaos was descending upon the camp as shouts for more water, along with the orders to take materials and equipment away from the inferno filled the air. Ben had to forcibly push his way through with water sloshing out of his bucket that muddied the ground and made it more difficult to go faster towards the fire. It was spreading fast throughout the forest and even into the camp. As he, Natalie, and a whole host of others made it to the nearest patch, the water only made the fire hiss and sizzle.

“Chemical fire!” he heard Natalie say over the shouts for more water to be fetched. Before he could ask what that meant, she tugged on his sleeve and said, “Come on, we need something different than water to douse it. Mine and Command's donkeys have potassium bicoarbonate extinguishers, and might be able to douse most of it. You need to pilot one. We can starve areas that are burning before it spreads too much.”

“Wha---oh,” he said, realizing what she had in mind, even though he only understood less than half of what she had just stated. Still, he understood enough to know that the donkeys that she and the former commander of the Third Section, Julian Alton-Tallmadge, had something that could be more effective in dousing the fire.

As terrifying as he had been to see Natalie's donkey in the giant humanoid shape, he was willing to bury his fear to save what he could. He just hoped that this outing with the transformed donkeys was not going to tip the precarious tension in the joint camp over. Arnold's declaration had spread like wildfire, and even with Anna's warning from young Lottie about the happenings in the camp, he was well aware that current feelings between the armies were tense. It was as if the Continental Army had completely forgotten just how much they owed the US Army for saving and helping them in the past couple of years.

But Ben was not a fool to understand that it was only because he, and his dragoons to an extent, had spent so much time with the future-people that he thought that way. The Continental Army, by the order of Washington himself, had been limited in contact with the future people. It was, in their eyes, witchcraft, and he didn't blame them at all. Though now, he had to shove that thought to the side – he needed to concentrate on the here and now; that is, to stop a fire from destroying the fort, the surrounding forests, and the Army's camp.

Tossing their pails towards two other soldiers who were running towards the spreading fire to try to contain it, they managed to finally get to the edge of the fort. It would be easier and faster to run the inner perimeter of the fort, towards the secondary entrance where the delineation marker between the camps begun. That marker contained several rows of tents, along with Sackett's tent of oddities, and the area where the serum was being modified.

Neither of them got far towards their destination, as Ben suddenly saw out of the corner of his eyes, something flying towards them with the tip of the flame in some vessel leading the way. He immediately threw his arm to cover his face, making sure Natalie was covered by him as the bottle with the flame tip shattered and exploded on the ground in front of them. The searing heat that rose from the angry red flames that encircled them, forced both of them back until they hit the perimeter of the fort's walls.

“Duck!” he heard Natalie shout, just as a barely seen golden shield flared up between him and the sudden appearance of a flurry of blue bolts. The bolts cut across the rapidly forming half-circle of fire that surrounded them, before its origin followed, just as the half-circle closed.

Glancing back just in the nick of time to see Natalie in the midst of transitioning from throwing the shield in front of them to lift her dress, petticoat and all, up. Her actions only stopped at her knees, as he saw her pull out her laser pistol that had been strapped to her left leg and bring the weapon to bear. He looked back up to see that the one who had fired the laser bolts at them was none other than Andre. Not Major Andre, but Director Andre.

Anger immediately swept over him as the man stepped into the ring of fire that was slowly creeping up the fort's walls as well, forcing both him and Natalie to step away from the wall. He silently cursed; he had no weapons on him, having dashed out at the first call of fire to go help. He glanced back and forth between the carefully trained stance that Natalie was holding against Andre, and Andre noticing that his initial shots had not fell them. He knew that now was not the time to wonder how in the hell did Director Andre sneak into the camp.

No words were exchanged, but before either Andre or Natalie could fire their weapons, the pounding of hoofs on the ground was felt. Not a moment later, a menacing burnished black-armored rider sailed through the golden red-orange flames, as if it were a demon summoned. Not that the blood red eyes of the robotic horse was doing anything to help the image of the Devil come to life, as for just a moment in time, everything around him seemed to slow down to a heartbeat per second.

He blinked as he saw Andre immediately turn towards the new threat, with Natalie taking a step out from behind the shield to fire her pistol at Andre. The rider was charging in right towards the Director, but impossibly, the man seemed to move faster than Ben thought possible. Andre dodged Natalie's first shot, while Ben saw the man's twist something on the pistol, before it flared as brightly as the sun. With the rider and horse still charging, and Natalie taking another shot and missing by mere inches because of Andre's erratic movements, Ben was already rising up from his crouch and moving.

Whatever that glowing thing was, it was a clear threat, and even as he stepped out from behind the shield, running towards the horse and rider, he saw Andre throw the object right at the horse. When it contacted the chest of the horse, the object exploded, sending a gust of heat-laced wind billowing all around that added to the inferno crackling around them. Ben stumbled and held himself fast for a just a moment as he threw up an arm to shield his eyes and face, turning his head slightly.

He didn't wait long though, for not even before the bright sun burst from what he could assume was the pistol turned into a grenade of sorts, he was already turning back. It was just in time to see the armor shatter from both horse and rider, as the horse reared with the explosion and threw its rider off. Benji was the rider, and Ben saw him sail through the air, landing on the ground hard enough to knock him out. As much as he wanted to rush to the side of his counterpart, he instead, charged at the horse.

Bodily slamming himself into the side of the horse, it rocked with the impact, as if a real horse would, and also knocked Andre back from his attempt to steal the horse. Ben immediately climbed onto the horse, just as Natalie continued to shoot at Andre. Her shots drove Andre back slightly before the wily man managed to roll and dodge towards the hindquarters of the horse and scrambled up. However, Ben was a little faster in gaining control over the robotic horse and yanked on its reins as hard as he could, while forcing the horse to turn so that its front was facing Andre. That combined reaction made the horse rear, and just as Natalie drove Andre closer to the forelegs of the robotic horse, the horse kicked – hard.

The Director was send skidding back into the fiery fort walls, slamming into it with enough force that he thought he heard bones crack. It was too late though, as the unnatural 'chemical' fire greedily engulfed the man. Ben turned his head slightly away from the carnage being quickly wrought by the flames as the burnt corpse of Andre topped over from its formerly crumpled position against the fort wall.

Even before the body fully hit the ground, though, another black-armored rider had crashed through the circle of fire. The armor was partially retracted as Ben saw that it was Major Tuomas Jefferson who had ridden in. Both he and the black man scrambled off of their horses, just as Natalie reached the unconscious Benji.

“No broken bones,” he heard Natalie murmur as he saw her shift her hands slightly under Benji's head. “I think he's just concussed. Can you get him up, Jefferson?”

“Sure thing, ma'am,” the man answered, gingerly hefting Ben's counterpart into his arms with Natalie and Ben helping him. Before the man stood back up though, Ben saw him gesture with his chin towards the charred body of Andre. “Who's the barbecued fellow?”

“Director Andre,” Natalie curtly answered, as the three of them stood up. The black man threw out a long, drawn out curse, but Natalie was not finished as she continued to say, “I don't think he's dead. If the report on Deputy Director Simcoe is anything to go by, and the evidence on Benji's regrown hand, he might've discovered a way to clone himself.”

“Shit,” was all the Major stated. “Last I heard and saw before Tall-green-boy here ran off to come here, our Washingtons are safe.”

“Let's get clear,” he interrupted, feeling relieved at the news. He also did not want to stay in this circle of hellish fire any longer. “If the stories and reports are anything to go by, Andre was here for something else than trying to kill Washington or us. It also behooves us to find out how the hell he got into the camp in the first place.”

* * *

_The next morning..._

 

A rainy, misty cool morning had settled in the area by the time Abe woke up. As he rolled out of the cot in the tent he shared with his wife and child, he frowned slightly. For the past few days he and his family had been sequestered away in the camp, near the delineation line between the Continental and US Armies, he had woken up to the sounds of the both sides of the camp at work. Today, not even with the sun fully risen yet, he realized that he had woken up because it was too quiet.

Carefully getting out of the cot so that he was not making too much noise and disturbing his wife and son's sleep, he shuffled over towards the entrance to the tiny tent and gently held it open in a slight manner. While yesterday's fire had finally been doused by a combination of dirt being thrown on it, and something foul smelling being sprayed from two donkeys, he would have thought to heard a lot more chatter, carpentry, and wood chopping going on. Instead, all he heard was the sounds of repair coming from the north side of the camp – where the Continental Army was quartered.

Peeking out, he looked around, and though the delineation line still existed, as he glanced towards the south, expecting to see the enormous green tents that the US Army quartered themselves in, all he saw was field and forests. Not one tent belonging to the US Army, nor their supplies were where he expected to see them. There were clear signs that there had been a camp south of the delineation line, but where was the Army?

“What...happened?” he heard Anna say as he glanced over a couple of tents down to see her step out of the tent she lived in, looking just as shocked and puzzled as he did.

“We just had a fire last night,” he said, mainly muttering to himself as he too, stepped out, catching Anna's confused look and gave her a shrug of his shoulders. Together, the two of them stepped further out and walked towards the new edge of the camp. It was empty, and as they looked a little more around towards the south – a thought occurred to him; perhaps the US Army had moved?

“Could it be?” Anna began, frowning slightly as she had another line of thought as for the reason the future army was missing. “Perhaps the device that transported them here--?”

“No,” a familiar voice said from behind them. They turned around, and Abe was half-surprised to see Andrew Strong standing before them. There was a somber expression on the normally calm look he wore. The man gestured for the two of them to follow him, saying, “Come on, get properly dressed and meet me in the planning tent. I'll go fetch Caleb and brief you guys on what has happened while you were asleep.”

“What about Ben?” he asked.

“Major Tallmadge is probably already being briefed by General Washington himself on the situation.”

~~~

“Sir, you wished to see me?” Ben asked as Washington's manservant closed the door behind him, while Laurens had taken a seat at the desk that Hamilton usually occupied.

It was still early in the morning, but Ben had been woken up by the sounds of mallets hitting wood and nails before dawn. After the chaos of last night, and ensuring that his commander was unhurt, he had been surprisingly ordered to get some rest. His initial protests at such an order had only been met with a glare from Washington, and reluctantly, he had returned to his tent.

Though he had wanted to get to the bottom of just how the Britannian had infiltrated the camp, it was still much too chaotic in the aftermath of the fire, and thus he had not been able to gather evidence and data until now, first light. All he had been able to discover was that Director Andre had killed young Mikhail Sackett, who had been guarding Major Andre, before also assassinating the Major via a gruesome hanging.

Prior to returning to his tent last night, though, the death or 'icing' of Lieutenant Carrie Brewster, coupled with the loss of her little brother had sent also Natalie into despair. Ben had briefly sat with her, holding her until Mr. Sackett had come to fetch and bring her back to her tent to rest. Seeing that there was nothing else he could do, as the fires were doused and the beleaguered men exhausted from trying to save the camp, he had fallen asleep for a fitful couple of hours.

When morning came with the sounds of the camp repairing itself, he had not even gotten to throw the covers off of himself when Laurens had announced himself at the entrance to his tent. The aide had waited with some unusual impatience to allow him to dress himself properly for the briefing with Washington. He had been briefly torn between duty and personal wants, but ultimately knew that he had to put duty first. There would be time later today to comfort Natalie in her grief.

At the present though, his commander looked up from the report he had been reading, and silently took a folded piece of parchment from another stack before handing it to him. Tucking his notebook between his left arm and side, Ben stepped forward and took the letter. Unfolding it, he began the read through the elegant handwriting. As he reached the end of the letter, he felt a frown tug at the corners of his lips that got deeper as soon as he read the signature. Looking up from the letter, he caught his commander's expectant look and folded the piece of parchment back up.

“Sir,” he began, handing the letter back, “Surely you do not intent to take New York now, not without the US Army's reinforcement?”

“We shall endeavor to convince our foreign allies that this is the best course of action,” Washington stated, his tone booking no argument. “Our combined forces are more than enough to take the city, especially with the rumors and vitriol that have been passed along various reports from out of the city.”

Ben remained silent at that – his spies within the city had not reported for days. He knew that because it was one of the first things he had skimmed through the stacks of reports for. All Intelligence concerning the city thus far had come from other spies being fielded by his commander and from Hamilton's contacts – one of which was the 'accidentally accused' and released tailor, Hercules Mulligan.

“Is it because of Arnold's declaration that Lieutenant General Washington has taken her people away?” he asked, getting straight to the point. Since his failure in keeping Arnold captive during the Lyme exchange, he knew that he had to come up with a better plan to lure Arnold out. If the rumors were true, then the British would most likely be reacting in a similar manner – especially without Director Andre there to influence them.

While Natalie's words about Andre not being truly dead rang within him, he could only assume that there was some delay until the man would show up again. After all, it had taken a few weeks for Austin Roe to send word from Long Island about a possible Deputy Director Simcoe sighting in Setauket. He still couldn't believe that the man he had seen killed in New Haven during the winter months was alive again. If – and it was an extremely strong and doubtful if – Andre had the ability to clone himself in this era as well, then perhaps Lady Washington's departure from West Point was more to lure the Britannian forces away from New York? Not to mention, preventing a rebellion within their own forces.

“Perhaps,” his commander answered. “She has left those working upon the serum here for now – Agent Strong and Mr. Alton-Tallmadge. Her Head of Intelligence had also left a message; one for their future actions, and a personal one for you, Major.”

Ben accepted the two folded pieces of parchment that his commander gave him, noting that one of them had not had the wax seal broken. He would have thought that his commander or even Laurens, who had decoded the first letter, would have decoded the personal one. He tucked the personal letter into his jacket – he would read it later. Opening the one which already had the wax seal broken, he read through the missive:

[ _Your Excellency; though the departure and separation of our forces was abrupt, it is not out of malice that my commander has done so. Rumors heard by those around the camp pointed to an uprising happening in the next couple of days. The fire and Director Andre's attack just gave us the excuse to leave. Unfortunately, the Director's attack was not only to assassinate his counterpart to ensure his own future was secured, but to also give Lieutenant General Washington a warning. Her entire bodyguard forces – Captain Horn and his people, were killed by Andre._ ]

[ _It is because of this and much more that we must now leave, to separate and divide any interests, should the Director have any contingency orders upon his death. Our primary goal will be to hunt for the two assassins so that we may exit this era as soon as we can before any other tragedies may befall America and her people. We will also endeavor to draw away Britannian forces before the power vacuum is filled again. Should your people come across any rumors that may help us, please send it with Mr. Tallmadge. We shall do the same for you, sir. Sincerely, Natalia Petrovna Sackett_ ]

“She never wanted to be Head of Intelligence,” he couldn't help but murmur, folding the letter back up.

Though he wished that he had had a chance to say farewell to Natalie before she had left, he could only imagine the turmoil in her thoughts – her grief for the loss of her brother, loss of her friend, and loss of her sister only a few weeks prior. To be thrust into such duties, especially with so much weighing upon her shoulders, and his memories of her clearly stating her reluctance to undertake such duties... he wished he had another chance to talk to her.

He did not know if he would ever see her again, and did not want to end their relationship in such an abrupt manner. Even without reading the personal letter, just the one that she had given to Washington felt as if a hollow in his heart had opened up. He had never realized just how much he had depended on her ever reassuring and loving presence, and advice until now.

“Such things, are never the wants and needs of those whom we need the most,” Washington stated, startling him for a moment as he looked up and hastily handed the letter back.

“Sir,” he said, “I apologize for my words.”

“There is no need, Major,” his commander answered, shaking his head slightly. “Of all those who remain of the combined Culper-Culpeper Ring, these missives confirm that Mr. Tallmadge and Agent Strong are here. I wish to reassess the capabilities that we have, and should any other of those future-agents be present, please include them in your plan.”

“Plan, sir?” he asked, puzzled.

“Your capture of Arnold at Westchester has proven that it can be done,” Washington answered with a hard look in his eyes. “Though it is regrettable that he escaped, the separation of the armies here must be leaked to the British. It will defang Arnold, and thereby give us an opportunity to possibly capture him again.”

“Sir,” he began, seeing the hungering gleam in his commander' eyes. He, however, dared not argue against that course of action – it seemed that Washington would not be dissuaded with his need to capture Arnold and take New York. Therefore, they needed new numbers in the event the Britannians did vacate the city and leave only the British forces behind.

“As you wish, Your Excellency,” he said, nodding, taking up his note book, and turning to leave, knowing that there was nothing else that needed to be discussed.

Outside, the sounds of men hammering away at the fort wall continued, though as he took a couple of steps away from Washington's tent, he heard the flap open again. “Major!” the youthful voice of Laurens called out to him.

Stopping, he turned and nodded, “Sir.”

“Considering the task that our esteemed Commander has assigned to you, this morning's Royal Gazette may hold some interest or help with your planning, Major,” Laurens stated, handing him the folded gazette.

“Thank you,” he said, taking the newspaper and opening it up. Reading the main headline, he couldn't help but say, “American Legion?”

“A call for all loyal colonial subjects to serve in His Majesty's colonial militia. To fight against the Devilry that has plagued the lands, no less,” the man answered before briefly clapping him on the side of his left arm and returned to the commander's tent.

Left alone, Ben quickly read through the article. While most of the words were inflammatory in nature, it contained much of the same rhetoric that Arnold's declaration contained. However, with Arnold forming a militia force, that meant more troops would be flooding into the city, changing the dynamic and numbers. That also meant that the troops under Arnold's command would most likely be given some training in utilizing the tactics that the US Army and Britannian forces employed – native-like fighting tactics.

While he was relatively sure that Arnold would try to employ more gentlemanly means of fighting, he knew the man well enough that Arnold would exploit any sort of weakness or strategy to defeat his enemies. If it meant that a force had to fight dirty, Arnold would most likely utilize such fighting techniques. This article was a broad appeal to people on both sides of the conflict to join him and oust the future-people.

Heading towards the tent where he had initially called for a briefing with all agents back when Arnold had published his inflammatory article, he hoped that he could catch at least someone in the tent. He needed to gather and see what agents he had left – he really hoped that Samantha had stayed and that Washington's briefing had only forgotten to mention her.

Yet when he entered the tent, he was greeted at once with both disappointment and surprise. Agent Strong and Benji were present, but they were the only ones from the future there. Caleb, along with Abe, Anna, and Abe's family were also there, and it looked as if they had been briefing on what had happened. He didn't need to ask as he saw it in their eyes – this was all that was left of the Culper-Culpeper Ring – whittled down to nearly the original participants of the Culper Ring. All compromised in one way or another.

“Mr. Sackett and his family are still here, Benny-boy,” Caleb quipped from where he was sitting.

“They know what happened,” Benji spoke up, looking up from the gazette he had been reading. Ben noticed that it was a few days old, and that the headline article was about the Lyme massacre.

“Washington has still tasked us to capture Arnold,” he stated, placing his notebook down. It was better that he get to the point, to let his agents know what the forward plan was going to be. Keeping his people in the dark had caused these messes, and with the plan to capture New York still going forward, he knew that he could not be picky anymore about sending agents where they needed to go.

“Sammie has been tasked as Lieutenant General Washington's bodyguard, if General Washington didn't tell you. You're going to need a new courier for New York, if you want to let Townsend and the others still in there know,” his counterpart stated.

Ben nodded, mentally filing away as to what happened to the plucky, cheerful woman. Both Washingtons were in precarious positions at the moment, and with slight regret, he did think Lady Washington's position was a little more precarious than his own commander. It was not Benji's well-hidden but somewhat detectable forlorn expression that form his opinion. He could see the frustration at being left behind in his counterpart's eyes – the need and want to be at his commander's side in this trying time. But his counterpart was a soldier through and through, and would obey any orders given to him by Lady Washington, even though Benji was now a civilian.

“Caleb,” he began without preamble, “now that Samantha is no longer the courier for the city, I need you--”

“I'll go,” Abe volunteered, interrupting him.

“You're compromised, Abe,” Anna stated. “You can't go back into the city without Simcoe seeing you. Not to mention, that _if_ the Director is cloned again, and sees you, you'll have no where to hide!”

“Unless...” Ben began, snatching up the gazette that Benji had been reading. A plan was quickly forming in his mind as he placed the paper down in front of Abe, and pointed to a particular headline on the front page. [ _Massacre at Lyme! Rampaging Rebels Kill Civilians!_ ]

“Look, everyone witnessed Mari leaping out to take a bullet for you,” he said. “But they don't know that she is a descendant of yours. What if you claim that Mari is your wife instead? She was dressed in this era's clothing, and it fits the torrid article that this Rivington fellow has written.”

Abe frowned, but looked up towards his wife. Ben followed his brief look and saw Mary Woodhull sitting with a rather grim look on her face. Nothing in her stance, even holding young Thomas, or in her eyes betrayed anything of what she was feeling. Considering her actions in New Haven, he was fairly certain that Abe may have discussed a few things with her with regards to Mari Woodhull.

Seeing that there was no argument coming from either Abe or his wife, he continued, saying, “You'll volunteer for Arnold's new unit.” He took this morning's gazette from the notebook and placed it on the table. “They're looking for those who are willing to fight against the Devilry. As a private in the Loyal American Legion Unit, you're perfectly positioned to learn Arnold's schedule and to observe his movements.”

“You want me to enlist as a redcoat?” Abe asked.

“More like Tory militia,” Caleb supplemented.

“Rivington is a lying shite, naming rebels as rampaging attackers. You said so yourself, Abe; Arnold also knows you as his lawyer, Underhill. He's seen you captured with him at Westchester, and probably seen Mari Woodhull's body as well. You have the perfect motive to join.”

“Revenge,” Anna spoke up, nodding.

“I don't like it,” Agent Strong suddenly stated from where he was sitting. “For all we know, Simcoe--”

“Will be taken care of before he can compromise me... again,” Abe stated, looking up with a determined expression. “Deputy Director or British officer, both of them need to die for what they've done to us.”

“Agent Strong has a point,” Ben heard his counterpart speak up, as he glanced over to see the man with his arms folded across his chest, giving Abe a slightly narrow eyed look. “You don't have an alert button to let us know if you're in trouble or not, Woodhull.”

“Alert button—what?” Abe asked, looking quite annoyed and confused at the same time.

“Companion cube, alert button, same difference,” the man dismissively stated. “The point is, none of your descendants are alive anymore. None of us will know if you get into trouble in the city. If you die right here and now, you could potentially unravel whatever time line we've established thus far, future and present. Your death--”

“So keep Thomas and my wife safe,” Abe cut in, his confused look slipping into slight anger, as he stared at Benji. Unfortunately, Ben was also subjected to the same accusatory look not a moment later as Abe continued to say, “I don't know much about this time travel thing, but is it safe for me to say that any Woodhull descendant may come from Thomas instead? If he's kept safe, then everything will still turn out all right.”

“He's got a point there, sir,” Strong spoke up. “We don't know enough about the family trees, especially when it concerns our ancestors who already have children. I mean, Nat said it herself – her unease always stemmed from young David getting in trouble or being near trouble. For all we know, maybe Mari sensed Thomas in trouble, not Mr or Mrs Woodhull here.” The agent glanced over towards both Abe and Abe's wife, saying, “No offense meant by my words to the two of you...”

“None taken,” Abe answered. “That was the clearest muddy explanation that I have been given thus far about these ancestors-descendants 'hunches'.”

Agent Strong barked in laughter at that, but it was short lived as Ben cleared his throat, wanting to bring the discussion back to the matter at hand. “So, once you're in the city, Abe, make contact with Townsend and the other agents, and inform them of the mission. That does not include Mrs. Margaret Shippen Arnold. She is to be left alone, excised from any contact. Your job is to join Arnold's unit and get his movements. Townsend and the other agents' duties are to get the updated numbers for the city – especially if Britannia responds to Lieutenant General Washington's departure. Once Townsend and the others send the necessary Intelligence back to us, we'll send a man into you.”

Abe nodded, “Right. Who will it be?”

“I haven't thought of that yet,” he admitted.

This rather daring plan that was partially inspired by Abe's willingness to participate in the Westchester and Lyme missions, along with the publications in the gazettes, was rather impulsive. However, with the abrupt departure of several of the future-people that he thought he could count on utilizing for gathering information and subversive warfare, he had to make do with what he had. Caleb was still recovering from his injuries, his counterpart was the courier between Washington and Lady Washington, and Agent Strong had been tasked to ensure that Julian Alton-Tallmadge continued to work on the serum. Anna – he had another task for her.

“But,” he continued before Abe could jump in, “you will know of him by the use of the phrase: I've missed the summer of '73. Are we in agreement?”

“Absolutely,” Abe answered, nodding with confidence shining through his eyes.

“Good,” he said, before focusing his attention on Anna, saying, “Anna, do you believe you're up for a task as well?”

“Why Ben, I never thought you'd ask,” she answered, looking quite delighted at the prospect of being assigned a mission. “I'd thought you'd just deter us womenfolk spies from participating in the same risks.”

_In another life, perhaps_ , he thought to himself, but did not voice that opinion out loud. It was not that he wanted to place any of the women who participated in this Ring in danger, but for the past few years, Natalie, Samantha, and the others had shown their merit in this sordid but necessary business. With what he had now, he needed to utilize every advantage he had left, even though he knew that he had promised Selah to that he would ensure the safety of Anna in this endeavor.

“Last we heard from Austin Roe, Deputy Director Simcoe was sighted in Setauket. Given that you're still considered missing, a quick peek into Setauket and additional gathering of information from Mr. Roe on Long Island would be ideal. When Washington marches on New York, we will need to be ready to take Long Island as well.” He looked over at Agent Strong, saying, “You're to go with her Agent Strong, but I don't want either of you to take any more risks than necessary. If you can pinpoint where Simcoe potentially is, do so, but don't linger.”

“Will do,” Strong answered, as Anna also voiced her agreement.

“I'll make sure Mr. Alton-Tallmadge gets that serum done while you're gone, Agent Strong.” he said.

“Want me to help row them across the Sound, Tall-boy?” Caleb asked, piping up and looking a little more alert.

“No,” he answered, shaking his head slightly. “I'm going to need your help with something else. I'll tell you about it later.”

“Oh,” his friend answered, though Ben thought he picked up a touch of disappointment in Caleb's tone.

Ignoring it, he looked around before asking, “Any questions?”

Agent Strong's hand shot up as if he were a pupil in a classroom, looking as eager as one as well. Mentally sighing at the childish action Ben managed to keep his exasperation from coloring his tone as he asked, “Yes, Agent Strong?”

“Can I wear a nifty pirate hat with feathers and an eye patch during my rowing of Anna across the Sound?”

“Andrew!” Anna admonished in a stern tone before Ben could do it himself.

“Any serious questions?” he asked again.

“Will Thomas and I be confined to camp, or will we be able to leave and settle somewhere else?” Abe's wife asked.

As much as Ben wanted to dictate the Woodhull family's comings and goings, he did not. If it were any other circumstance that did not have Mari Woodhull dead and looking exactly like Mary Woodhull, he would have confined Abe's wife and child to the camp for their own safety. Instead, he looked over towards Abe, knowing that of all of the risks and discussion about descendants and ancestors, this was Abe's family. “Abe?” he asked.

Abe blinked in surprise before realizing that he, Ben, was giving him the final say as to what would happen to the two. “I know you're not comfortable here, Mary,” Abe began, “but I think this is the safest area you and Thomas can be in at the moment. You're going to have to keep hiding until I get back, but that also means there's a less of a risk of some stranger outside of the camp or in the wilderness seeing you and trying to pick apart your cover story.”

“So I'm to be a camp follower?” she asked, frowning.

At this, Abe looked unsure, and wanting his friend to have a peace of mind before plunging into the riskiest mission that they were about to undertake, Ben spoke up, saying, “We'll find you something to do to set you apart. Something where you can remain in the camp, but not be visible to those who've witnessed your descendant's dead body.”

Reluctantly, he saw her nod, but it was the same determination that he saw in her eyes reflected in Abe that Ben knew that she was in agreement with the plan. All that was left to do now was to implement it.

* * *

_Somewhere along the dirt road, south of New York City..._

 

“Halt!”

The team of two horses and the wooden cart they hauled continued onwards, and it was not until Simcoe trotted his horse right in front of the horses and cart did the driver pull on the reins and halt the team. “Where are you going?” he simply asked as he stared at his counterpart, who was sitting on the right side of the bench, while Commandant Sheridan sat on the left. There was a man with one arm, who looked similar to Major Benjamin Tallmadge standing amongst the covered items on the cart, occasionally ensuring that nothing tipped over.

“South,” his counterpart answered in a genial tone, “to join the other two that I have sent ahead in preparation for the mayhem and destruction that will be rendered in a few months' time.”

“You? You never sent those two assassins down. Director Andre did,” he stated, narrowing his eyes slightly.

He had long been suspicious of his counterpart's willingness to participate in the war, especially contributing to it in a scientific and technological way. Considering what his counterpart had been accused of doing to the underground facility in New York, along with what had happened in New Haven, Simcoe thought it ridiculous that Director Andre would have given his counterpart another chance at life.

“Ah, but you see,” his counterpart began, before breaking out into a smile that looked hideous and not at all what Simcoe had ever seen on his counterpart's expression before. However, the gestures that accompanied it, along with his staring at his counterpart was suddenly overlapped in his mind with an equally familiar gesture and smile that he had seen countless of times before. Frowning slightly, he stared at his counterpart for a few moments later before hearing him say, “Do I not look familiar now, Lieutenant Colonel?”

“It can't be,” he couldn't help but state, glancing over at Commandant Sheridan who gave no other indication as to what was happening and looked bored.

“It is,” his counterpart confirmed the unsaid thought running through Simcoe's mind.

“How?” he couldn't help but ask.

“The serum is compromised, and I know that they are developing one to kill me... well, me in my natural body. Therefore, with help from the Commandant here, some _modifications_ were made to the clone,” his counterpart stated in a simple tone that no longer had the same cadence and accent that he had long heard issue out of his counterpart's mouth. The accent and cadence was now definitely that of Director Andre, and as abhorrent as it was – he also applauded the brilliancy of the idea.

“They won't know what hit them,” he answered, this time nodding in support and appreciation of the subversive way that the Director had seemingly taken over his counterpart's body. “Excellent.”

“No, they won't,” Director Andre within Deputy Director Simcoe's body answered. “If you and your Rangers care to join me, our destination will be to the south, where we shall set up a glorious trap for a final confrontation with the Continental and US Armies. The destruction of the French Fleet, and long-ranged assassinations are included in the package deal.”

“Ah, though I must say, it was Major Hewlett who pointed me southwards,” he acknowledged, though as much as he didn't want to give the man any credit, he reluctantly did so. “I assume that it was all a part of your plan?”

“Yes,” the man answered.

“Then where shall this confrontation take place?” he asked.

“Yorktown, Virginia.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I'm have some trouble with the parallel for Season 4. The writers have done an incredible job with the tight storylines and characterizations that it's difficult for me to poke holes into the season. But, considering that Tallmadge (and Abe, Anna, Caleb) was historically NOT at Yorktown... (Writers, I know you like drama and all, but maybe you could've just showed Tallmadge and his 2nd Continental Light Dragoons as a diversionary force instead - you know, their actual battles in the Westchester and Long Island regions of NY?)
> 
> Anywho, I also apologize for the slow posting of chapters. Real-life can be a pain in the butt at times.


	36. Our Men and Women in New York

**Chapter 36: Our Men and Women in New York**

 

_Some 'Dingy' Recruitment Place in New York City..._

 

“Underhill!”

It took Abe a moment to realize that his aliased surname had been called, having been used to being yelled at by redcoats and people from the future with his true surname. However, his stumble was small as he immediately stepped up, just as a chilling thrill ran through his body for just a moment at the mention of his alias. The guardsman at the front of the recruitment office jerked with his head to the side, indicating that he should go in.

Opening the door, he stepped into the stuffy office that was full of militia accouterments and immediately closed it. Sitting in front of the neatly stacked rows upon shelving of items was General Arnold. The General was looking quite hale and healthy, as if whatever had happened in Westchester and Lyme had not even ruffled him. Abe was quite surprised that the quick-tempered General looked calm and composed. He would have expected at least a familiar look of frustration to settle on the man's expression when he walked in.

“Mr. Underhill?” General Arnold asked, sounding quite incredulous a moment later as Abe stood at a mimic of an attentive stance. He knew that his stance was probably incorrect, but he was only mirroring what he had seen soldiers in both Washington's camp and around the city do. “Not the lawyer whose wife...” the man trailed off as Abe continued to silently stand there, hoping that his expression conveyed the appropriate need. “I'm very sorry for your loss,” Arnold continued, as if regathering his thoughts and realized what he had been saying was not the most tactful thing to mention.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

As the General stood up, Abe took that as an invitation to step forward and firmly grasped and shook the man's hand. Letting go, he then stepped back as Arnold asked, “Any idea where the rebels are hiding?”

“Dead men walking,” he curtly stated, putting as much force and anger into his words.

Arnold sat back down and picked up his quill, saying, “This outfit is to be the very best of the best. You're a lawyer...”

“And even though he is a rebel, I'm sure that you received reports from the officer, Major Tallmadge, who had been temporarily in charge of New Haven during the winter months. I was told that Major Tallmadge's reports also contained those who participated in the winter raid from Long Island. You must have some idea of what I can do--”

“Yes,” the man testily answered, though Abe did not miss the tightening of his grip on the quill. “I had read the report, but here in the British lines, we are only taking men who have served on the battlefield, not those involved purely in defense of one raid.”

“General,” he protested, “I can handle a musket as well as the next man.”

“I don't have time to turn you into an officer. Go--”

“I don't want that opportunity sir! I just want the chance to fight!” he interrupted, causing Arnold to pause before he could fully launch into his tirade. “I was ambushed with you in Westchester, forced to use every inch of my wits to survive in Lyme, and I've seen what you've seen sir. I know how those future-people fight. The force you stated in your declaration that you're putting together will need men who have had experience seeing the Devilry and have not shied away from it. Providence spared me so I can stand before you, today, and seek my revenge.”

The silence that stretched between them was long, uncomfortable, and after a few long moments, Abe had to resist the urge to scratch the back of his head or fidget. Finally, Arnold glanced back down and readjusted his grip on the quill, signing his name on the line before placing the quill back into the inkwell. The man then blew on the paper to dry it before rolling it up and holding up for Abe to take.

Abe gingerly stepped forward and took the rolled parchment, just as Arnold stated, “There you have it, Private Underhill. Welcome to the American Legion.”

* * *

_Meanwhile, on the Shores of the Future Home of Port Jefferson, Long Island..._

 

“Well,” Anna huffed as she dusted her hands as best as possible of the wet sand, “that certainly was a rather uneventful crossing.”

“Don't tell me you wanted to engage in a high-speed drug run chase across the Sound, Anna,” Andrew cheerfully stated as he let go of the boat that both of them had dragged further into the beach and dusted his hands as well. “Anna Strong, Chief of the Coast Guard Maritime Homeland Security forces in New England-New York waterways. Has a nice ring to it.”

“A bit of a long title, don't you think?” she answered, even though she had no idea what exactly her descendant was talking about. There was some inkling to his words though, as she continued to say, “Though Caleb would more than likely volunteer for this 'Coast Guard' unit, seeing that he's the one who loves crossing the Sound as a privateer on the London Trade.”

The laughter that issued out of Andrew's mouth was a little unsure, and she wondered if she had struck true in some sort of way about Caleb's future after the war was over. It was difficult to think that the conflict and their fight for freedom would ever end, considering recent events. However, she didn't press for any answers or clarification from Andrew, knowing that he was as tight-lipped, if not more than the others from the future had been.

“Come on, Mom,” Andrew affectionately said a moment later, taking her by the hand as if a child would, and tugged her gently towards the direction that they had been pointed to, for Austin Roe's last known whereabouts.

Following his lead, Anna quietly and quickly made her way through the thick woods and up the gentle sloping hills that dotted this particular area where they had landed. It soon flattened out as they approached the far east end of Setauket. Austin Roe's modest smithy shop bordered Setauket. It was mainly because he needed the forest to fire up the forge, and the easy access to a shoreline for water and trade. The area was the densest in forest and easy for traders to get to and from. It was also why neither of them had placed their boat at that particular area in the shoreline.

At long last, their trudge through the woods finally yielded them the main road that snaked throughout the villages that dotted Long Island. Adjusting her dress and ensuring that her appearance didn't look too much like a wind-blown mess, Anna gingerly took the offered arm of her descendant. Together the two of them made their way down the road, eventually coming across a double horse-drawn cart that was full of covered goods.

“Selah and Mrs. Strong?” the cart driver called out as Anna saw him slow down before coming to a complete halt in front of them.

“Mr. Robeson?” she questioned, wondering why the oyster shucker was driving a cart that was full of ladened goods – none of which smelled like it was from the sea.

She also knew that Robeson was a gossiper within Setauket, and thus, needed to come up with an excuse fast as to why she was no longer missing. She had hoped that neither she nor Andrew would encounter any Setauket residents all the way out here. It looked like their good luck from the Lord had run out for the moment.

“Robeson,” Andrew greeted quite curtly, sending an uncomfortable feeling down her back. It was not the defensive or protective tone she heard in her descendant's voice that had caused that, but the cadence and the accent that Andrew had adopted – it sounded exactly how Selah would have greeted Robeson. She half-marveled at just how quickly her descendant had picked up the mannerisms of her husband in absentia, even though she had never told him about Robeson's attitude and unpleasant association with her and Selah.

“Aren't you supposed to be somewhere where the rebel army is, Strong?” Robeson questioned, sneering at mainly Andrew. “Thought you left with them when those British came back to take what was rightfully theirs.”

“After what had happened in the past couple of years?” Andrew challenged, looking and sounding every inch of hostility that she had seen her husband show against Robeson before. The commentary was vague enough, and she understood that he was fishing for information to use, so that Robeson would continue to consider him as Selah, not one of the future-people.

“I see you found your wife,” Robeson stated, deciding to not press any further in his goad. Anna detected a faint whiff of the sour smell of rum from the man's breath, as Robeson continued to say, “Hewlett had been sending out search parties for her.”

“I see that you're still drunk as ever,” her descendant countered, letting go of her arm and stepped up, as if he were about lift the cover off of the goods that the man was transporting. “Smuggling more goods for the London Trade?”

“No,” the man sneered. “Doing some good service for the blacksmith, Austin Roe. He had business in the town today, and needed these transported.”

“Well, let us ride with you, and I won't have to damage Mr. Roe's goods,” Andrew unexpectedly stated.

It seemed that Robeson had not expected that statement either as Anna managed to keep most of the astonishment off of her own face. As full of surprises and whimsical as Andrew often was, she had distinctly heard the seriousness in his tone. “What?” Robeson asked in disbelief. “You're a wanted Patriot, Strong. What in God's name--”

“Bring Anna and I to Setauket. I'll see you get paid by Hewlett himself, if you bring us there – after all, you did say that he had been sending out search parties for my wife,” her descendant stated. “I'll even make sure that you're not branded as a Patriot sympathizer, if that is what you're really worried about, Robeson.”

The man stared at them long and hard, but Anna did not avert her eyes from his beady gaze. Neither did Andrew, though Andrew's staring at Robeson was unnerving enough that the man quickly averted his eyes. “Fine,” Robeson stated at long last, moving from the center of the wagon seat to the side to make room for both of them.

Andrew took Anna gently by the hand and helped her up. As much as Anna loathed to sit next to Robeson, she did so, knowing that it was much safer for her to keep Robeson's attention than to allow Robeson to take a closer look at Andrew. As much as her descendant looked like Selah, she had spent time with him enough to tell that there were some small facial differences between her husband and her descendant. Andrew only looked like Selah from afar and from an initial meeting to those who knew Selah. Any further time spent other than a short, polite conversation would give away Andrew's refuge in audacity.

There was also the simple matter in being a gentleman – and despite Andrew's usual countenance, she knew that her descendant was one; even if it was displayed with unusual mannerisms to her time. It was safer for her to sit in the center than at the edge.

As soon as both of them were settled on the cart, Robeson slapped the reins and the horses started forward again. It didn't take them long to enter into the town proper, and Anna did not miss the surprised look that many of the townsfolk, including those British troops were giving the two of them. Robeson stopped the cart in front of a large and open stall that already had a few odds and ends laying about it.

There was a young man hammering a few rods of sorts together, though Anna could not figure out what exactly was being put together. As soon as the cart had pulled fast in front of the stall though, the young man looked up and placed his tools and the rods down. “Ah, Mr. Robeson, thank you for helping me move the items here!”

Robeson merely grunted and got off the cart, as Andrew hopped off and then helped her off. They both turned as the young man came up to them and gave them a friendly smile, saying, “Austin Roe, blacksmith, at your service.”

Before either she or Andrew could introduce themselves though, a complement of British troops marched up to them, saying, “Selah Strong, you are to come with us.”

“No!” Anna protested, her fears about the British trying to recapture her husband, even if Andrew was only pretending to be her husband, coming true.

She ignored the knowing look that Robeson had thrown them, as Andrew surrendered peacefully without a fight. Against the redcoats, and in public, she was surprised that he was not dropping the false cover that he had taken on. She was sure that with his skills, even in unarmed combat, he would have been able to easily defeat the redcoats – though she knew that it was not wise to put up a fight.

“Anna Strong,” the officer stated as well, turning towards her, “you are also to come with us. Major Hewlett has been searching for you since your disappearance from New York. He will be relieved to see that you are unharmed, though not pleased to see that you have arrived in the company of a known traitor to the Crown.”

“What's to happen to my husband?” she asked as the redcoats unceremoniously marched both of them up towards the church-turned-barn.

Neither of the redcoats answered her question, and soon, both of them were shown into the church. Surprisingly, or at least she knew that she should not be, considering that there seemed to be a great friendship of sorts between the two, Judge Woodhull was within the church. It seemed that the two had been in some intense discussion of sorts, as both her and Andrew-as-Selah's unexpected appearance surprised them both.

“Mrs. Strong!” Hewlett's exclamation of relief greeted them, before the British officer's expression immediately turned sour. “Ah, and Mr. Strong. I see that you had managed to find and reunite with your wife, Mr. Strong.”

“Only after both she and I had seen the errors of our ways,” Andrew stated in the same clipped tone that she had heard Selah use many times whenever he was annoyed but needed to remain as polite as possible. 'Patron-ushering' voice, was what she had called the tone that her husband used, for it had been mainly with patrons who tested his patience in his tavern that he used such a tone.

“The errors of your ways?” Judge Woodhull questioned, before realizing that he had overstepped his bounds slightly and gestured for Hewlett to continue.

“I would like to hear this discovery of the 'errors of your ways', Mr. Strong,” Hewlett stated, looking quite unconvinced.

“I believe you have heard about what happened to New Haven?” Andrew asked.

“Yes,” the Major answered. “Quite devastating, but that is what you rebels deserve for playing with fire and making a pact with the Devil himself... or rather, I heard that the Devil is a white-haired woman.”

“Patriots, Tories, and soldiers from either side of this colonial war died, Major,” Andrew forcefully stated, as he tried to take a step forward in anger.

Anna noticed that it was not a false anger either – Andrew truly was incensed by such a flippant remark from Hewlett. She too was surprised at just how callous the garrison commander was, but she kept still and kept her mouth shut. It was not her place to speak, even though she had tasted some of those liberties while at camp – even if it was arguing with Ben sometimes.

“None of those devils, no matter what side they had claimed to be on, did,” Andrew continued, though Anna knew that that was a lie. “I had my reservations when those future-people claiming to be Patriot allies attacked Setauket. I had even more when I saw what they had done – completely abandoning the town to go fight on whim near Philadelphia. New Haven was the last straw. I may still be a Patriot, but my wife and I read General Arnold's declaration, and we, along with many others who experienced the coastal raids and of what happened to New Haven, agree with a part of it. These future-people need to be ousted, to be gotten rid of in this war.”

Hewlett remained silent, though Anna could see that Judge Woodhull wanted to say something, but refrained from doing so. After a few uncomfortable minutes that was punctuated by a shrewd look from Hewlett, the man hesitatingly said, “I was told that Abraham and his family were in New Haven just recently. Patriot territory until... well, until it was overrun by these beastly giants. Did you happen to see them, while you were living there, Mr. Strong? Mrs. Strong?”

“Yes,” Anna jumped in before Andrew could make up an excuse. Something about Hewlett's question, and the tone of it gave her a feeling that lying about Abraham's whereabouts during their time in New Haven would not be for the best. “I had seen Mr. and Mrs. Woodhull, along with their child, while living in New Haven. Abraham... Mr. Woodhull, had found work as a clerk, though he was living under a false name. Given that we all just wanted to live in peace and did not want anything to do with these horrid things that have plagued us, Selah and I were not inclined to out Abraham or his family. However, after the destruction of the town, we were separated, and thus, neither my husband or I know where they had gone to. Last we had seen them as the fires burned in New Haven, they were still alive.”

“Why did he not reach out to me and let me know he was safe,” she heard Judge Woodhull mutter, while shaking his head slightly, though she could see a minute look of relief in his eyes at the news.

Both she and Andrew remained silent at that, though Hewlett merely nodded before tapping the desk he was sitting behind, saying, “I know not why either of you chose to show up now, considering the resources spent trying to find you – especially you, Mrs. Strong, but there must be a reason. I am a reasonable man, and as much as I loathe to agree with Patriots such as yourself, Mr. Strong, I agree with the sentiments that General Arnold has published. I will allow you a chance to defend yourself before deciding what to do with you.”

“And what of my wife?” Andrew asked. “Is her fate tied to mine?”

“I will consider her fate separate from yours, as she had proven her loyalties all those years ago after rebel forces ousted us from this town,” Hewlett answered.

She saw Andrew frown slightly, before taking a rather exaggerated, but still keen look around the church, saying, “I don't see Simcoe or his Rangers here.”

There was a faint, knowing smirk on the agent's expression, and at that, Hewlett folded his hands together and rested his forearms on the desk. “Yes,” the garrison commander testily answered. “You're very observant, Mr. Strong. Lieutenant Colonel Simcoe and his men are no longer bothering this town or its inhabitants. It is also why I am able to extend to you, a sliver of generosity that is not influenced by that man's mad machinations.”

“Since you are of the same thoughts and sentiments as General Arnold, are there any future forces on this island--”

“Mr. Strong, my patience is growing thin,” Hewlett interrupted. “If you believe that I will not send you to a prison ship, do not mistake my willingness to listen to give you information that you can bring back to Washington or other rebel commanders. Speak, or I will throw you into the stockades for the rest of the week.”

“We want refuge, Major Hewlett,” Andrew bluntly stated. “There are others who cannot abide by either the British or Continental forces and their association with this Devilry that General Arnold as put it. We want refuge here, on Long Island, because Connecticut and other areas that are contested are no longer safe for any of us who want nothing to do with this conflict.”

This time, Anna was unable to keep the surprise off of her own face as she stared at Andrew. He had not discussed this turn of events with her, and she wondered where he was going with this. He had spoken very little with regards to his own opinions of the integration and abrupt separation of future and colonial forces. This was the first time she had heard anything coherent of the sort from him. Was this his own opinion, or was he still pretending to be Selah?

“What?” Judge Woodhull echoed her own sentiments about Andrew's thoughts, as the soldiers who had brought them in looked at each other in astonishment as well.

Hewlett remained silent, unfolding his hands and steepling his fingers together for a moment. “Interesting,” the officer stated a few moments later. “Why do you rebels not go north to Boston, or elsewhere? Why do you want to return to such hostile lands?”

“It's home,” Andrew answered, “and other than the taking of Long Island, it has not been violently touched by those strange things. There is law, there is order here, and it is only myself, my wife, along with Reverend Tallmadge and a family he has been ministering to while in New Haven, who want to return.”

“Ah, so Reverend Tallmadge has also been living in New Haven since his disappearance during the time you rebels took the town?” Hewlett asked.

“The family told us they found him on the shores in Stratfield, and took him in,” Andrew answered. “Of the others, I know not what happened to them, except for what Anna has told me about two of them being killed in New York City.”

“No doubt by those people who do the Devil's bidding,” she heard Hewlett mutter.

As she put two and two together, especially with regards to Andrew's off hand comment about 'Reverend Tallmadge', she realized who exactly her descendant was talking about. Ben's descendant, the one who looked eerily like Ben's father, but was not a reverend, was still within Washington's camp. She knew not exactly what the man was working on, but the Sackett family had been working on the same thing – secretive and something that could potentially turn the tide of the war with regards to the future forces. Considering that the camp was not as secure as they had all thought it was, with the direct attack from Director Andre as proof, she supposed that it was imperative to find some place more secure to conduct their secret work.

But to place them in Setauket... that was bold, foolish, and dare she say it – absolutely mad and brilliant at the same time. Not only would they be able to fully support Austin Roe in his gathering of information, they would be spying directly on New York and its surroundings. They would have what she had heard another of Ben's descendant, the former Major-turned-General Tallmadge, say: 'a foothold in the region'.

“But only if Simcoe and his Rangers are no longer here, and those strange soldiers are not as well,” Andrew followed up.

“I will consider your proposal for refuge, under one condition,” Hewlett stated, standing up from behind his desk and walking out so that he was standing face-to-face with both of them. “That you, and those seeking refuge, will quarter an officer in your homes. These officers will report on your activities to me each morning. If there are any attempts to subvert these reports, those who conduct the subversive activities will immediately be assumed guilty and sentenced to the prison ships.”

“Major...” Judge Woodhull began, protesting slightly, but fell silent when Hewlett held up a hand to prevent anything else the magistrate may have said.

“Simcoe's ways are not my ways, Mr. Strong,” the British officer stated, “I'm sure your wife can attest to that, especially during her time in New York City. I am fair, but given the activities that have happened, I must make sure that the people in the town are protected as well. You are correct in this instant, though, Mr. Strong. Long Island is emptied of these soldier claiming to be from the future, but the whereabouts of Simcoe and his Rangers are unknown to myself and others. He is not here for now, but I can give no guarantee that he will not return.”

“Then we are in agreement for the time being, Major Hewlett,” Andrew stated, sticking a hand out for the officer to shake. “A truce and refuge for those who want nothing to do with the chaos that has engulfed the colonies and her people.”

“A truce, Mr. Strong,” Hewlett agreed, taking Andrew's hand and firmly shaking it.

* * *

_A few months later (time skips moving at the pace of plot)..._

_New Windsor Camp_

 

“No French lace cravats...” Ben muttered to himself as he perused the latest Royal Gazette's advertisements. Putting the paper down in frustration, he stated out loud, “This doesn't make any sense. Abe should've already made contact with Townsend weeks ago! Either one of them should've then informed Mulligan to place the advertisement...”

He turned slightly from where he was sitting at his cramped desk, in his tiny tent, to see Caleb still sitting as he had left him a couple of hours ago. There was a seemingly far away look on his friend's face, as if Caleb were staring not at the ground, but beyond it. “Am I talking to myself?” he wondered out loud.

As he hoped, his words finally got the attention of his friend as he saw him look up, startled but frowning this time. “Sorry... is Mulligan in jail?”

This time, it was Ben's turn to frown as he said, “No, Caleb. He was released weeks ago. His slave, Cato, was able to cross unseen with the news.”

“Oh,” Caleb answered.

If his frown could get any deeper, it tried. Ever since the future-forces had abruptly departed from camp, Caleb had been in a sullen, quiet mood. It had not escaped his notice that his friend had been drinking a lot more than usual – and without the usual joviality associated with it. He had initially thought it was because of Carrie Brewster's 'iced' status or apparent death, as he had put it properly in his mind, and let him mourn as needed. However, this change in his friend had lasted even up until now.

Little things, small attentions to details that he normally seen his friend take careful interest in, slipped – such as the sharpening of the tomahawk. What would have been at least a bi-monthly smuggling run on the London Trade had not even been undertaken since Lyme Incident. Even the simple message delivery of Washington's service discharge orders for the Boston Culper-Culpeper Ring members had taken a few more days than necessary. Ben had heard from some of his dragoons who had been on perimeter patrol duty in western Connecticut that Caleb had ran into their checkpoint drunk and almost unable to remain on top of his horse.

“Caleb,” he began, greatly concerned.

“Oh hey,” Caleb interrupted him, glancing out towards the sliver of an opening to his tent that allowed a gentle breeze to float in and try to cool the stuffy, hot tent. “Looks like Tall-green-boy is headed out again. Didn't you say you wanted to join him on a courier run, Ben?”

He placed the quill back into the inkwell and carefully stood up, ensuring that the reports on his desk did not spill from their precarious stacks. “We'll talk later, Caleb,” he stated, not appreciating the obvious deflection of whatever issues were plaguing his friend. This was the third time he had tried to talk to Caleb, but similar to the previous two, his friend had somehow found something more important, more pressing that required either of their attention.

Caleb said nothing in acknowledgment, and without another word or glance back towards him, Ben stepped out. Catching a glimpse of his counterpart rounding a tent within the camp, he called out, “Benji!”

His counterpart turned and stepped back towards him as he quickly closed the distance. It didn't escape his notice that even though he was wearing civilian clothing, Benji still had his hair cut in the future military style. Yet there was a steadily growing, and neatly trimmed full beard upon him, clearly differentiating the two of them. Not that Ben thought his counterpart deliberately grew the beard again to do so, but he was of the unconfirmed and unasked opinion that Benji liked the beard from the first time around.

“Hey,” his counterpart casually answered. “Got some new info for me?”

“No,” he stated, shaking his head slightly. “I had a request though. That I may join you in your courier duties today--”

“Major Tallmadge!”

Both he and his counterpart glanced towards the youthful voice that had called out his name, only to see that it was Laurens, outfitted as if he were about to courier as well. The young aide-de-camp was leading a dapple-grey mare by her bit, but stopped before both of them, saying, “General Washington requests your presence in the meeting with the French and Russian envoys.”

“Oh?” he murmured, but nodded. He had given Washington what numbers had been gathered and sent out, but without Abe or Townsend's contact in the Gazette, the report was quite incomplete. Anna and Andrew's reconnoitering of Long Island, coupled with the latest numbers from Austin Roe, and the news of the lack of a future-force presence there was reassuring. Still, New York was the key they needed.

Before Laurens could step away, he heard Benji asked, “Courier duties, Colonel Laurens?”

“No,” the young man answered, shaking his head slightly, before ducking his head slightly as if embarrassed about something. “General Greene requested my aid in the commanding of his artillery forces. Given what I have learned from Major Jefferson about the Gauss Cannons, and what General Knox has also imparted with more traditional cannons, General Washington has seen fit to release me from my duties here to go to General Greene's aid down south. It is the Carolinas for me, sirs.”

“Ah,” Benji answered, though Ben was curious as to why there seemed to be a relieved look on his counterpart's expression. “Well, may fortune favor your blade, sir.”

“My sentiments as well, sir,” he followed up, as both he and his counterpart shook Laurens's hand.

As soon as the young aide had left, Ben turned to his counterpart, saying, “Perhaps next time you have your courier duty, I may be able to join you?”

“I don't see why not,” Benji agreed. “If there's nothing else, I'll see you later, sir.”

As much as Ben wanted to question why his counterpart had such a strange look when Laurens departed, he refrained from doing so. That would be a question for next time, since both of them had more immediate things to get to. “Safe travels, Benji.”

Returning to his tent, he entered it and saw that Caleb was no longer there. In the brief time he had spent talking to his counterpart and to Laurens, it seemed that Caleb had disappeared somewhere within the camp. He sighed, mostly to himself in frustration, knowing that he should stop trying to cajole his friend into talking to him about what was bothering him. There were no gross violations of duties from Caleb, other than that report from the dragoons about his drunkenness, so he really had no excuse to take Caleb off from his duties.

Gathering the latest reports that he had presented to Washington earlier, he shoved them into his notebook and tucked it under an arm. Stepping out, he made his way across to the small house that Washington was quartered in. The guards, a mix of French, Russian, and Continental outside stood alert and gave him keen looks as they allowed him by. Entering, there were four additional guards, two Continental and two French, standing at the entrance, at the same level of attention as those outside.

Even if the French were not present, since the assassination of Major Andre and all of Lady Washington's bodyguards, the guards had doubled in their protective duties. The lack of integrated future forces and eyes, along with their presence still present in the war, made it difficult to assess whether or not a clear threat was being posed to Washington. It was murky and Ben hated it, but information that his counterpart brought back from his courier duties neither confirmed or denied the threat.

Down the hall, he saw Billy standing near the door, and with a nod from the negro, he gently knocked on the door and opened it, hearing Washington finish up whatever he had been saying, “... your forces are in the north.”

Fully entering and closing the door behind him, he saw a few familiar faces among those in the room, including Hamilton, standing by their commander's right side, along with Lafayette, who was finishing the translation from English to French. One of the men that Lafayette was translating to was the commander of the Russian forces, Potemkin. The other was an older man who had sharp eyes, but was wearing a similar French uniform as Lafayette.

“May I introduce my aide, Major Tallmadge,” Washington stated, gesturing to him before gesturing towards the French commander, saying, “Monsieur Comte de Rochambeau is in command of our expanded French-Russian fleet.” Ben bowed slightly towards the French commander, who gave him the same greeting. With the short, unspoken pleasantries exchanged, they all then returned their attention to the map on the table.

“New York must be taken first in our campaign,” his commander stated, gesturing towards the city, which had the bars of red upon it. “Reports have already come in that Long Island has been emptied of Britannian forces. With the results of West Point engraved into their memories, it seems that there is an active campaign to seemingly oust the future forces. Taking both New York and Long Island would cut off any reinforcements that may be sent to fill in the gaps that the British may have. If we do not take these two areas, we cannot win.”

The French commander began answering and Lafayette dutifully translated, “I am of the opinion that we should attack New York when the time is right. Perhaps, however the south may be secured.” The Frenchman paused for a moment, having finished translating what Rochambeau stated, before adding, “If I may add, General, we've been making good sport of these foxes down there.”

“Hunting a fox is not the same as killing a wolf,” Hamilton countered, though Ben did not hear any harshness of the sorts to Washington's aide-de-camp's stinging words.

“Wolves may be dressed in sheep's clothing,” Lafayette sparred.

Washington's quiet, but clearly accentuated clearing of his throat interrupted the two from furthering their verbal jousting as he continued to say while pointing to a particular area on the map, “One option is, is to concentrate our forces and siege the city. Admiral deGrasse's carriers would cut off General Clinton's supply.”

Ben saw Lafayette nod, saying, “I concur that that is indeed, an option.”

It was a decidedly neutral answer as Ben frowned internally to himself. He had seen and even had been subjected at times to the rather enthusiastic participation of battle and support from the young Frenchman. This tone, not cautious, but without the liveliness he had heard before, was quite strange. It seemed that his commander had also picked up on the rather lack of spirit.

“New York is critical to a successful path to winning,” Washington repeated.

After Lafayette had translated again and Rochambeau answered, the Frenchman stated, “The Comte will not disagree, given that we have an alliance, though circumstances behind the conditions down south are more generous.”

“So cut off the head, and the beast dies,” Hamilton stated, as if it were the most obvious of things on the planning table.

“The soft underbelly would do the same,” Lafayette answered, inclining his head slightly before saying a few words in French to Rochambeau. Potemkin had also jumped in on the conversation in French, though his words were ever so brief to the two Frenchmen.

Ben did not know what any of them said, but it seemed that Washington had picked up on something, as Ben saw him nod slightly, saying, “Comte, I greatly appreciate this full and frank discussion with you.”

“The honor is ours, Your Excellency. It is important that this alliance is correctly aligned in interests,” Lafayette translated. The Comte, along with Potemkin, and Lafayette himself bowed slightly, signaling that the meeting was concluded. Ben, Hamilton, and Washington returned the gesture.

After the three had left, Ben took a couple of steps forward, his notebook and all of the information thus far, still tucked under his arm. It had been interesting to watch the dynamics at play, though it was Hamilton who broke the silence, saying, “I'll start drawing up the plans for the siege of New York.”

Surprisingly, Washington shook his head slightly in the negative fashion, saying, “The French and Russians want to attack the south.”

This time, Ben could not keep the frown from appearing on his face as he considered the words and subtle looks that had been exchanged between all parties. Considering the intelligence that his counterpart gathered from being courier to Lieutenant General Washington, along with the fact that Laurens had stated that General Greene had requested help down south, perhaps the French and Russians had a point. With Arnold's declaration, and the intelligence gathered from Long Island stating that it had been emptied of all future-forces, no one knew where these future-forces – British and Continental – had retreated to.

He himself had an inkling that perhaps they may have gone south or taken the fight to less hostile colonial-era areas; all drawn from his counterpart's reports. However, even he did not know where exactly Benji couriered, and would not know conclusively even if he went with his counterpart on a courier run. He suspected that his counterpart had a freely moving courier drop area, given the extensive training and advances the future-agents had.

“Could they be right, sir?” he hesitatingly asked.

He saw his commander's lips thin at that question, but far from being angry at him, Washington looked extremely frustrated. “The prize lies within our grasp,” his commander stated, pointing at the British forces bereft of their Britannian counterparts, “and they wish to settle for fool's gold.”

* * *

_Time skip to the Greatest City In the World_

 

Somehow, Abe managed to refrain from sneezing as some dust from the cloudy haze that was kicked up from horses, carts, and people walking about the city, tickled his nose. Deciding that it was better that he cut through alleyways instead of the streets to get to his destination, he was so focused on not attracting any more attention than his red British uniform usually attracted that he slammed into someone rather hard. The person grunted as he stumbled back as well.

“I'm s--” he began, about to launch into a profuse apology to the person he had bumped into, until he realized that it was a beggar that he had bumped into. Rather than get angry though, he realized that the beggar with a rather large moth-eaten blanket wrapped around him was none other than Townsend.

“Townsend?” he asked, looking around for a brief moment to make sure that there were no curious passerbys, and that perhaps the other unsavory people the man ran with were near.

“Woodhull,” the man greeted, though there was nothing friendly in his eyes. “What in God's name are you doing? Last I heard, you were severely compromised and could not return to the city. I've been following you since I saw you at the barracks. Have you switched sides?”

“Infiltrating,” he answered, surprised at just how freely Townsend had invoked the Lord's name. He knew that even though the man had been turned to the streets, Townsend still tried to adhere as much to his Quaker teachings as much as possible. Scratching his head slightly, he realized that perhaps he should have made contact with the man sooner.

“I'm sorry,” he apologized, holding a hand up to try to placate him, while keeping the other that held his flintlock down. “I should've contacted you sooner, but they had us doing drills and training since I joined. This is the first time since I've entered the city that I was allowed to go out – at the request of General Arnold himself to meet him at his home.”

“General Arnold?” Townsend questioned. “He doesn't know who you really are?”

“I'm his lawyer,” Abe answered, shrugging and giving the man a rueful smile. “I'm Abraham Underhill, former clerk and errant lawyer of New Haven.”

Townsend was silent for a few moments, before quietly asking, “And the others? Mrs. Strong? Last I saw Samantha Tallmadge, she said that all of you were in New Haven, and that you in particular were in West Point.”

“Escaped. We all escaped the carnage that happened there, thankfully,” he answered, closing his eyes for a brief moment to push away the memories of Lyme. “A lot has happened since then,” he continued after a moment's pause. “With the lack of Britannian forces in the area, 711 needs the new numbers for the city. He means to take it soon. He also wants Arnold captured to make an example of him, so that's my job. Your job is to get as accurate of numbers and armaments as possible.”

“Miss Hattersfield and Lieutenant Creighton are no longer serving here,” Townsend stated. “I don't know where Robert Rogers went, but I suspect that he is tending to his own personal matters and will not interfere.”

“How is your network of thieves and beggars?”

“Decimated when the Britannian soldiers were quartered in and around the city, but I believe that they'll make a comeback,” the man answered, looking slightly pensive. “I'll see if I can find and round up some of the remaining boys to get the numbers.”

“If you can't get it to the dead drop, give it to a tailor named Mulligan. I was told that he has other methods to get the information to 711.”

Townsend nodded, though there was a cautious look about him. “How are you going to get Arnold out?”

“Once you send the numbers onto 711, then another will infiltrate and help me get Arnold out. We may need your people to help us, if we can't get him out on our own.”

Townsend nodded before quietly asking, “And this meeting that you have at the moment?”

“Arnold requested my presence. I'm still his lawyer, even though I'm enlisted. Who knows. Maybe I'll find some numbers for you to send back to the dead drop, though I don't know if there's any place within his house that you can skulk around...”

“I do not skulk, Mr. Woodhull,” Townsend protested. “I merely listen. Carefully.” There was a faint smile on the man's lips that told Abe that he did not find the description of what he usually did insulting. “I have been close to the Arnold's house before, but I will keep out of sight. When you leave, make your way straight out, cross the main thoroughfare, and into the alleyway cluster to the right. I will be there waiting.”

“All right,” he agreed, clapping the man's right arm before stepping away.

Parting ways, he hurried back down towards General Arnold's home and emerged onto the main street where the house was. Making his way up the stairs, he knocked and was greeted by the Arnold's servant. “Private Underhill, here to see General Arnold as requested,” he stated.

“I'm sorry sir, but General Arnold isn't here--” the servant began.

“It's all right, Zipporah,” a feminine voice stated, and not a few seconds later, the lady of the house, Mrs. Margaret Shippen Arnold stepped out from the first room on the left, down the hall. “Please allow him in. While my husband is not here, he does expect me to care for a degree with regards to his affairs. I have been expecting our lawyer. Please see to it that the children are not to disturb us.”

“Ma'am,” the servant obeyed, letting him in before closing the door and making herself scarce as she climbed the stairs to the second floor.

The last time Abe had seen and talked to Mrs. Arnold was back in New Haven, when he had reassured the frightened woman that he would try to help her resolve the issue of Arnold's eldest son being missing. That was then, when Arnold had still been a Patriot commander. This was now, with both Arnold and his wife across the lines. Given that it seemed that Arnold had made no mention of a code book, or otherwise, Abe knew that he could safely assume that Mrs. Arnold had never disclosed the fact that he, along with Anna and the others in the tavern in New Haven, were Patriot spies. He could also reasonably assume that Mrs. Arnold was of the manner that thought espionage was distasteful and dishonorable, and thus would never mention to her husband, no matter what side Arnold had been and now was on, that she was a spy as well.

Or had been.

He remembered Ben's explicit order to not engage Mrs. Arnold, and even now, was stammering an excuse as they both walked into the drawing room, “I apologize Mrs. Arnold, but even though you had taken care of your husband's affairs in New Haven while he was engaged in other matters, he has asked that I only discuss--”

“Mr. Underhill,” she interrupted, turning around, “when I first heard about your joining my husband's unit, I was surprised.” She clasped her hands across her slightly swollen belly, belaying the fact that she was pregnant, but did not falter in her piercing gaze right at him as she continued to say, “I must thank you for coming into my home today, as well as to York City to kidnap my husband.”

Abe blinked, gobsmacked at her eerily calm declaration as she filled that pause by saying, “I want to help in any way I can.”

He half coughed-half laughed in absurdity. “This is a joke. Am I being pranked here?” He then nervously looked around, but there was no one else in sight, nor were there any indications to the sounds of soldiers surrounding the place, ready to shoot him.

“I never told my husband what I had done, Mr. Underhill,” Mrs. Arnold stated in a calm, reassuring tone. “Neither had I ever told him about what you and the others in that tavern are. I heard about the circumstances for your joining my husband's forces, but I have seen how comfortable you were with these so-called witchcraft people. I know that some of these people from the future look like people in the now, and though it may be presumptuous of me, but I do not believe your wife to be dead. My impression of your wife is that she would protect and die for your son – not you – just as I would do with the child I hold within me at the moment.”

He saw her move her hands ever so slightly at the mention of the unborn child within her as she continued to say, “Benedict is not the man I married. When I took his hand, he was a General in the Continental Army. His treason will not stain my family or my child. The Shippen name will not suffer more than they already have, especially with his betrayal. In recognition of my service, I expect this guarantee from General Washington.”

Abe frowned as he considered Mrs. Arnold's words. Ben had never mentioned how the woman had come into the service of the Ring, even if peripherally, but he had to assume that she was part of the Philadelphia branch that had temporarily replaced him, Anna, and the others. He also didn't know why Ben told him not to engage Mrs. Arnold, but here she was, offering her services.

“What are you offering?” he cautiously asked.

“I know his schedule,” she stated, still quite calm and poised. “His daytime schedule varies, but he tries to be home by the evening. His nighttime routine involves waking up at midnight and going to the outhouse to relieve himself before returning to bed. Do you plan on taking him here?”

At her questioning of how exactly he and whomever Ben was going to send to assist him in capturing Arnold, he looked around. While certainly opulent, considering the proximity and ease to transport an unconscious man such as Arnold, it was not conducive to such a plan. “No,” he answered, shaking his head slightly. “The house won't work. If we take the General here, they'll investigate – question the household. Arnold's sons, that servant of yours, Zipporah, may not be able to keep a secret. We need to get him out of the house. If you get him to a wharf, we can get men with a boat to take him.”

“When?” Mrs. Arnold immediately asked.

“What?” he asked, surprised at just how eager she looked. That one word from her told him all he needed to know – she truly was unhappy with her marriage, even though she had looked quite delighted and relieved while in New Haven.

“I can arrange a carriage ride for just the two of us. When will you be ready?”

“I need to check on my people once they figure out how to arrange the ride,” he answered. He needed to get this information to Ben fast, but how long would it take Mrs. Arnold to arrange for a ride? “Do you need three days? Two?”

“One,” she declared.

Again, Abe could not hold back his surprise. “Uh,” he began, thinking quickly, “I'll let my people know. When we're ready, I'll send a message. Look for the phrase, 'your friends from Boston'.”

“I look forward to our partnership, Mr. Underhill,” Mrs. Arnold stated. In a louder tone, she said, “I'll see to it that my husband knows that the deeds to the lands are to be sold at price.”

Abe wanted to gape at the fact that he knew not how he was going to draw up such a thing, considering that last he looked at the deeds, they were severely undervalued and almost worthless. Considering that New Haven was all but burnt down and that there were strong rumors that until the future-people were gone, building upon it would invite misfortune – the deeds to the lands could not be sold. However, with the fact that they now had a viable plan, with Mrs. Arnold's help, that would allow them to capture Arnold, drawing up the documents was the least of his worries.

If the news traveled fast enough, Arnold would be in Continental hands by week's end.

It was with that thought, and the finality of Mrs. Arnold's statement that he knew that his time was up. Giving her a farewell, he left the house and made his way down and into the busy street. Remembering what Townsend had told him earlier, he now hoped that this tailor named Mulligan would not delay in relaying the information to Ben. Considering how long Mrs. Arnold needed to set up the trap, the sooner he would be able to ex-filtrate the city before it became a bloodbath, the better he would feel. He did not want to still be attached or within Arnold's unit when Washington marched upon the city.

Townsend was where he said he was, as Abe made his way into the knot of alleyways. He could not linger in the area, due to people having seen him exit Arnold's house – presuming that his consultation as Arnold's lawyer was completed. Before the man could speak though, he stated, “I need you to get this to Mulligan fast. Have him send 721 with the message: '355 from Philadelphia can export the goods in one day if given the right transport.'”

“355,” Townsend began. “Not the wife--”

“There's no time,” he urged. “They need to know now. We can end this now, Townsend,” he insisted.

“But the numbers...”

“Can come afterwards,” he stated. “I'll help you when I have patrol duties tomorrow. This other task – it can't wait. It needs to get to 721 with all haste.”

* * *

_Somewhere in Southern Connecticut..._

 

There were so many questions that Ben wanted to ask, so much he wanted to say to Natalie as they rode side by side on horseback, but he didn't. He kept silent, just as she did, both enjoying the company they had with each other. He could sense that their time together was ending soon, as it needed not be said that the abrupt departure of Lady Washington's forces from Fort West Point was the beginning of that great divide. He knew that it was futile for him to linger and hope that there was a way for the two of them to remain together – star-crossed lovers across the divide of time – but it was difficult to let go.

Not only had she taught him so much, guided him throughout the years in this espionage business, she had shared in the pain, misery, joy, and even suffering that he had to endure. Were it not for her and Mr. Sackett, Ben did not know if he was able to continue as he did now, independently operating and confident in his decisions as Head of Intelligence – even if they had been struck a blow. He owed both her and his mentor so much, and yet he did not know how to repay that debt.

Sackett and his family had left Washington's camp, shortly after Anna and Andrew had returned, citing that they had established a posting under the nose of Major Hewlett. His former mentor and the family was now operating a small apothecary within Setauket, using that as a disguise to continue working on the serum with Alton-Tallmadge. Alton-Tallmadge himself was under the disguise of being Ben's father, for no one had told Hewlett that Reverend Tallmadge had been killed a couple of years ago.

At the present, it was also why he had asked his counterpart to accompany him on one of his courier duties. He wanted a chance to say one last goodbye, for he did not know what would happen if they finally took New York, or if and when the war would end. Not much was said on how to get the future-people back, but it seemed that his commander was intent on taking New York and capturing Arnold, before anything would be done about hunting down the two remaining future-assassins. It was also apparent from the reports that Benji brought back, that Lady Washington herself had tasked all of her own resources to hunting the assassins.

Hence his want to say a possible final goodbye to Natalie. He had a feeling that time was running out, but for whom, he didn't know. There was so much he wanted to confess to Natalie, to tell her that he wanted to find a way for her to stay, that she would always be in his heart and mind, but he didn't. They just rode in silence, down the dusty path in the waning summer heat and sun. He could still see the tension that she carried, being on actual horseback, for it was necessary to disguise herself. Her donkey, identifiable even in these thick woods of southern Connecticut, could not be ridden by her.

He himself was also in civilian clothes, to match his counterpart, who had made himself scarce for the moment. As grateful as he was for Benji's discretion, he was a little embarrassed with the fact that somewhere out there, his counterpart was probably watching over the two of them. Knowing that Benji and Natalie had had a relationship long ago was also adding to that uncomfortable feeling. He couldn't help but think that he was following in his counterpart's footsteps in ending his relationship with Natalie.

Just as that thought flitted through his mind, the faint sounds of hooves thundering across the ground startled both of them from their amicable winding, calm ride through the woods. Not a moment later, he saw the colors of the familiar civilian outfit that his counterpart was wearing, flash through the trees.

“British lines advancing from just across the Saugatuck,” Benji began without preamble as soon as he halted his horse in front of them – to which the horse snorted clearly in displeasure at such an abrupt action. “Where did you say this contact was supposed to meet us, Nat?”

“Mayflower Tavern,” Natalie answered, “on the southern edge of Green's farmlands.”

Ben frowned – Green's farms was one of the largest in the area – and had been a potent source of supplies for both the British and Connecticut militia. During the Westport raids, the British had scorched the earth in that area. Fortunately, not all of it had burned. It was now a part of no man's lands, but there were still a few brave souls working the fields on the farms. The tavern mentioned was a somewhat familiar one to him, with him having heard from Caleb that that had been where he had made port several times during the early days of the war.

“Contact?” he questioned, wheeling his horse towards the direction the tavern was in. As the three of them set off at as fast of a pace as possible through the thick woods.

“Laurens sent word from General Greene that this agent had intelligence for both Washingtons,” Natalie answered, her words nearly getting lost to the sounds of hooves crunching on the leaf-covered ground, the snorting of horses, and to the wind whipping past them. “He said that Greene had sent her as far up towards friendly territory as possible. Benji and I were supposed to get her to safety.”

He grimly frowned as he spurred his horse further on, trying to get to the tavern as fast as possible. Because the area was no-man's land, Connecticut militia presence was non-existent. Skinners and cowboys ran amuck in the area, but neither could be counted upon to defend anything but their own interests. From where they were, and from where Benji had seen the British, intercepting General Greene's agent at the tavern before the British could get there would be extremely close.

He was somewhat sure that the agent that Greene had sent was not the young woman, Leigh Hattersfield. From what he had been told via reports, she was still suffering from what she had endured at the hands of Britannia, and had gone completely mute. He had discharged the woman from her duties upon hearing that report from Lieutenant Creighton, and had the lieutenant take the woman back down to Philadelphia. He hoped that by being in a familiar and friendly city, that she would be able to recover. Though he had not informed Greene, he knew that by reputation, Greene would not try to press someone back into service who suffered as Hattersfield had.

The question of who was this female agent under Greene's command was answered in a short while as they clattered to a halt near the north edge of the woods and forced their horses to enter the area in a calm and controlled manner. As soon as they approached the tavern, Natalie immediately dismounted from her horse and quickly made her way to the tavern. As much as Ben wanted to follow, he and Benji dismounted their own horses, making as if they were not as in a hurry as Natalie was. Yet both of them were also warily looking out towards the west. There was nothing to indicate the approach of the British from their Saugatuck River landing yet.

As he made to look to fiddle and adjust his horse's saddlebags, his hands brushed against polished wood and metal under one of the bags. He only had his carbine with him, and that was carefully hidden under the saddlebags. Civilians were not supposed to have carbines, for it was mainly cavalrymen who wielded them.

His counterpart had his laser rifle, but because it was difficult to disguise, even under a bundle of cloth, that too had been carefully secured into saddlebags. Neither of them were riding those robotic horses either. It would have easily marked them as Continental soldiers anyways, especially now that Arnold's declaration had made its way through the thirteen colonies.

“Oy...” a voice said as Ben turned to see the last person he wanted to see, approach from the other side of the road, winding his way through a knot of civilians passing by. Beady-eyed, with a sharp, craggy marked face, he did not expect to see the oyster shucker, Robeson, here. The man stopped about two horse-lengths away from them, eyes widening in fear and realization before suddenly dashing away – towards the west.

“Robeson!” he hissed, immediately leaping back onto his horse, just as his counterpart did as well. Before he could spur his horse forward to stop and silence Robeson's raising of the alarm, the tavern door swung open and Natalie hurried out, with a dark-haired woman following closely at her heels.

Both he and his counterpart closed the distance to Natalie and the woman, as Natalie said, “Take her, Ben!”

He didn't even blink twice as he immediately reached down and swung the young woman up and into the back of his saddle. Benji had done the same to Natalie, and even burdened by double weights each, their horses still obeyed their commands. Together, the four of them bolted out there, just as he heard the cries of the British sound, along with the tell-tale booms and whistles of flintlocks being discharged.

~~~

_At the same time, in Setauket..._

 

“Christ!”

Anna had not meant to let loose such a word, especially with such invocation, but the fact that the man who looked like Ben's father but was not, had suddenly slumped over, pale as a clean sheet, and remained unmoving startled her. She was not the only one to spring into action as Mr. and Mrs. Sackett, along with Andrew, reached Alton-Tallmadge first. They pulled the pretend reverend up from his prone position, and thankfully, she saw the slight movement of his chest, indicating that he was still alive.

“Major...Tallmadge,” she heard the man croak. “Benji... can't tell... anymore...”

She was slightly confused with the man's words, but it was enough to understand that Ben was in trouble and that this older descendant of Ben was suffering from its effects. As disheartened as she was to realize that this was also what Andrew most likely also felt and looked like whenever she or Selah were in trouble, she pushed it to the side. Taking the wet cloth from Mrs. Sackett who had exchanged places with her so that the children, Lottie and David, could be ushered out, she pressed the cloth against the not-reverend's forehead.

”Spirits so it's true?” she heard Andrew ask. “Commandant Sheridan did do something to Benji...”

“Connecticut...” Alton-Tallmadge grunted, pushing back from where he had been sitting at the table and slowly getting up.

“Anna, get him down to the shore and see if you can find a boat,” Andrew ordered, taking a metallic cube from the top of the nearest book shelf, and handed it to her. “Press the two blue buttons on the sides together to transform the cube into a motor and attach it to the back of the boat. We can't wait for Caleb to get here. I'll take care of the guards.”

“I shall help in that endeavor, Agent Strong,” Sackett stated.

Shouldering some of Alton-Tallmadge's weight upon her own shoulders, both she and the man slowly made their way towards the back. She didn't see, but she could hear both Sackett and Andrew gathering a few things. If both were to kill the British guards that Hewlett had stationed in front of the apothecary that they worked in, she was glad that Mrs. Sackett had taken the children upstairs.

As soon as she heard grunts and the like, both she and the not-reverend exited the apothecary via the back door. The man was still pale, and had a sheen of sweat on his face, but there was a determined look upon him, as Anna helped him towards the north shore. She had signaled for Caleb earlier in the day, for unrelated reasons but still concerned the intelligence gathered. Considering it was still daylight, Caleb would not be here anytime soon – he would have been easily be spotted by the British forces that patrolled the coast.

However, as both she and Alton-Tallmadge got closer to the north shore, she could see a laid up boat at the shore. Puzzled, for she knew that the British patrols would have been examining the unknown boat or stationed at least a man there to watch for it and its captain, there was none. What should have also been at least two patrolmen stopping them for questioning – to which she had an excuse ready – was none. Where the path she knew that they walked along the shores, were no one... except for two redcoat bodies lying haphazardly on the ground. It looked as if their heads had been nearly severed from their necks – as if someone had taken a hatchet and repeatedly chopped at the necks, as if chopping wood.

“Eh, like it, Annie?” she heard the unexpected voice of Caleb casually say, as he suddenly emerged out from a small knot of trees just to the right of the laid up boat. “You don't have to worry about these bastards anymore.”

“Caleb!” she exclaimed, horrified, as she briefly looked away from the carnage.

There was a reason why Andrew had not killed every guard or patrolman that Hewlett had assigned to them and the area they had settled in. It would have raised suspicions and alarms, had Andrew even killed one and claimed it an accident. She certainly did not want a repeat of what had happened to her husband and Abe all those years ago when both had gotten into an altercation with the British garrison in the tavern.

“What?” Caleb asked, but before either of them could say another word, Alton-Tallmadge slipped out of her guiding embrace and hobbled his way towards the boat.

“Caleb,” she said, pushing aside the need to throw up as she stepped to the side. Never mind the mess that she needed to find an excuse to come up with, to explain the condition of the patrolmen. She knew that Caleb was a soldier, and had killed men before, but to realize that he had done this – brutally severing and taking the lives of the two soldiers... Something was wrong with him.

“Take him,” she said, clutching the front of her stomach as she tried to hold down the contents within her stomach, while gesturing with a free arm towards the still pale-looking Alton-Tallmadge. “Ben's in trouble, and his counterpart can't tell anymore.”

“Ben?” Caleb questioned, before realizing just how ill Alton-Tallmadge looked while still making his way towards the boat. “Shite.”

“Take this,” she said, managing to close the distance and pressed the metal cube into his hands. “Press the two blue buttons on the side to turn it into something that can take the two of you across the Sound in short order. Go!”

She didn't know what words she had said or that something had finally snapped Caleb out of his strange, giddy-like fugue, but a slightly horrified and apologetic look over came him for a brief moment. She saw him glance over towards the not-reverend, before looking over towards the two gruesome remains, before focusing back on her. “I-I'm sorry, Anna... I can't—I can't...”

“Just go!” she urged, stepping back, doing her best to avoid glancing over towards the dead soldiers. “We'll take care of this. Just go, before it's too late!”

~~~

_Southern Connecticut_

 

Ben wheeled his horse this way and that, weaving his way through the thick wood while trying to avoid charging into branches. The _ptwot-ptwot_ of bullets flew over and near him and his companion, as he tried to lose their pursuers. Flecks of tree trunks being split by the bullets, and falling leaves and dirt kicked up by their race through the woods, splattered them. He could feel the woman he carried shift while he and his horse shifted. There was no sound coming from her, and it was only the occasional tightening of her arms around his chest to prevent herself from falling off that he knew that she was still alive.

Bursting through a cluster of trees and into an open field surrounded by thick forests in the distance, he risked a glance back to see the twenty redcoats mounted on cavalry charging through where he and his counterpart had just cleared. Focusing his gaze forward, he ducked slightly as he heard the discharge of rifles. Fortunately for now, the redcoats on the horses were not as accurate as he had feared as they rode and shot their rifles. Still, they were relentless in their pursuit, and getting more accurate as the pursuit continued--

“Split up!” he heard Benji shout, as he took a quick glance over to his left to see both him and Natalie unharmed thus far as well. “Stratford to Waterbury! We'll take the Easton route!”

He acknowledged the order and spurred his horse away. By splitting themselves up, he hoped that perhaps because Natalie was also riding with Benji, the two would be able to draw off some of the pursuers. It would add to the British's confusion, though he knew that neither of them could sustain their horses' paces for long. Waterbury was too far away, but both Easton and Stratford had small contingents of Connecticut militiamen. Two of the 2nd Light's Troops were also stationed between the two towns, on patrol.

All they needed to do was to make it to the towns – without themselves or the women they each carried being shot dead.

 

~*~*~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Green's Farms station, the next stop is Green's Farms station.” Metro North commuters will be familiar with that phrase.
> 
> This last part, with Ben and the literal horse chase that reads just like a Hollywood spy car-chase, was based on actual events – written by Tallmadge himself in his memoir. The only differences were that the chase happened in 1777, near Germantown, Pennsylvania, and that the woman was someone he had been tasked to reconnoiter at the Rising Sun Tavern. The woman is never identified, except cited as a 'country girl'. Sources for this 'chase scene' are from his memoir, and the summary provided in Tim McNeese's book, “Revolutionary Spies: Intelligence and Espionage in America's First War”. I wish that they actually filmed something like this for one or two episodes of TURN.


	37. Fox Hunt

**Chapter 37: Fox Hunt**

 

The horse that he and his companion rode labored greatly in breath, but Ben continued to urge the beast on. He hated doing such a thing to such a fine mount, but with the relentless pursuit of those British soldiers behind them, he could not afford to slow down. With foam already gathered and sweat lathering the sides of his horse, the beast would falter before they could even get to the outskirts of Stratford.

Ben had pushed his horse for over six miles of somewhat flat, but heavily wooded terrain at a breakneck pace. They were still in no-man's land, in the middle of what was left of Fairfield. While it would have been prudent to ride across the blackened fields of former forests that had been burnt down in British raids, it would've been easier for their pursuers to hit them.

Still, even in such peril, all he felt was the young woman continuing to cling onto him, not even uttering a single cry or whimper of fear. Bravery in such bald face of danger was rare, even rarer still for the fairer half of the sex to display. However, owing to circumstances, his own opinions on women had changed drastically all those years ago on a cold winter day after the taking of Trenton.

Glancing back, he could see the flit of red coats in and among the dead trees, with the occasional snort of horses echoing throughout the forest. It was thinning, and in the open field ahead, he knew that this could possibly be the end of the ride for both him and the young woman he carried with him. He only had his flintlocks – carbine and two pistols – but he had to make all of his shots count.

With one hand on the rein of his horse, he continued to urge the beast on wards as they thundered through the forest, zig-zagging their way through trees and fallen branches. He reached back and down to where he had his carbine holstered, but instead of where it usually hung, ready to be drawn, his hand hit or rather touched something else. Despite the situation, he immediately withdrew his hand from the accidental brush against the young woman's stocking-covered leg, feeling himself becoming a little more overheated than he already was.

“Carbine!” she shouted in his ears, a moment later, as the familiar wood, metal, and weight of his weapon was thrust against the palm of his open hand.

Looking back, he saw her grim expression and her nod towards him as she had taken one of his pistols into her own hands and was ready to hand it to him on a moment's notice. “Hold on, Miss,” he said, as he returned his attention to the front and felt the arm that had wrapped around his waist tighten ever so slightly in an effort to not fall and balance herself.

Readjusting the carbine in his hands, he brought his horse's reins to his mouth, tightened the hold on it and clamped down on the leather with his teeth. With his other hand now freed, just as they burst through the woods and into the open field, Ben turned, bringing the carbine to bear. The first redcoat on horseback to follow through was felled by the precising timing of Ben's aim and cadence with his horse's hoofbeats on the ground.

Trading the carbine for a pistol, he immediately swung around and took aim as another redcoat entered the field. He fired, and though the shot was wide, it managed to hit the soldier in the shoulder, flinging him off of the horse. Several reports of flintlocks answered his two shots, as he instinctively ducked. The young woman's arm was still around his waist, but it seemed that she was also unhurt as he felt his second pistol land in his free left hand while his right one was stripped of the discharged one.

Several more redcoats on horseback – not British cavalrymen, for he knew just how deadly accurate they were – entered the field. Again, with careful aim, Ben fired, but this time, missed the rider, but managed to hit the horse. Still, a hit was a hit – and the soldier tumbled from the fallen horse.

The beast underneath the two of them was definitely faltering now, as he could feel the mare's labored breathing, and her slowing. Receiving the loaded carbine, he wheeled the horse towards the northwest with his teeth and the leaning of his weight – they needed to get as close to Stratford as possible. Four shots came perilously close to them on the right, as Ben immediately righted himself and swung to the right, carbine raised.

Just as he fired at the nearest redcoat, two cracking reports, one of a flintlock, and the other of a _pew-pew_ variety to his east were also heard. Not a moment later, two riders bearing no colors came crashing out of the forest on the east side of the field. However, the two riders were not Skinners or Cowboys, as Ben's eyes widened for a fraction of a second – Caleb and startlingly, Alton-Tallmadge were riding towards the redcoats.

The grass about a hundred yards and growing behind Ben was lit on fire as he saw the tiny blue bolts lance out of Alton-Tallmadge's weapon, while he saw Caleb pull out a rather enormous double-barreled blunderbluss and discharge that at the redcoats. It gave the pursuers some pause, and then a complete stop in their chase as a wall of fire sprung up from the dry grass in the field.

However that fire was also growing _towards_ Ben as he rode towards the two, who had halted their horses almost five hundred yards from the wall of flames. As his tired horse approached, seemingly sensing that there was to be relief soon in the form of not galloping at a break-neck pace, he saw Alton-Tallmadge take something from within a pocket and throw it to the ground. A robotic horse grew out of the cube that had been thrown to the ground.

“Get yourself and the lady on the horse, Major,” the man shouted, as Ben urged his exhausted mare to close the last few yards.

Turning slightly as he felt the young woman loosen her hold on him, he helped her slip off the horse, before he dismounted as well. There was no fear shining in her eyes, nor of any sort of aversion towards what she had just seen. He didn't know if she had mastered her fear of the strangeness that had just been displayed, or that the greater urge to get to safety and intact was at play here. Both of them approached the robotic horse, who stood as if it were a real-horse, complete with the impatient stamping of its hoof.

“Stratford to Waterbury, Caleb and Mr. Alton-Tallmadge,” he stated, as he helped the woman up the robotic horse first. “Benji and Natalie are headed towards there. Fall back and don't take any risks.”

“We'll keep the lobster-backs off of you, Benny-boy,” Caleb stated, grinning in a way that sent an uneasy feeling rolling down Ben's back. “Just get the pretty lady to safety.”

He shook off the feeling as he saw Alton-Tallmadge look out towards the growing and approaching wall of flames, as if he could see through it. “Go,” was all the man stated.

Seeing that there was no argument to be had, even though he was unwilling to leave his best friend or a somewhat ally behind to cover for him, he knew he had to. Whatever intelligence that this young woman carried was important enough that British troops, inexperienced in cavalry formations and pursuits, were willing to pursue them even this far. He lifted himself up onto the robotic horse, this time seated properly so that he was seated behind her, allowing his body to shield her.

Taking the reins of the robotic horse, he gave the two one last look before nodding and kicking the horse off. As the two of them tore away from the field and towards safety, at the usual pace of an able horse, he didn't dare look back, for it would only cause him to stop and want to help them. Leaning in slightly, he said, “Please trust in what I am about to do, Miss. This is the only way we will be able to fully escape our pursuers.”

He had never ridden a robotic horse at full speed, but had heard of how it was operated – at least how it was operated at full speed. His counterpart had been the one to walk him through exactly how it was done – how the Devil's Cavalry at Brandywine had arrived in such a swift manner. There was a first time for everything, and as she silently nodded, he said, “Reach towards the right ear of the horse, and press the tip of it.”

She complied with his request and a moment later, the black liquid-like metal seemed to erupt out of the horse, from hooves and climbing up until it enveloped both horse and riders into its armor. He could feel her panic slightly, as did he as the cool liquid armor surrounded both of them, allowing both of them to listen to their own breaths within the armor. It was an incredibly strange sensation, and one that Ben hoped never to repeat – listening to his own breaths echo in this strange chamber.

Tightening his grip around the reins of the horse, it also activated what his counterpart had stated was the HUD, or Heads Up Display. That was a magnificent thing to see, as it seemed that he could still see the field before him, except it was enhanced by small details, numbers that he could only guess at, and others. There was one number though, that caught his attention – the largest one on the upper left corner of this strange display. It was slowly ticking upwards, and he realized that it was a measurement of the speed of the robotic horse.

He found that though the metal looked and felt like so, he was still able to move, albeit not as freely as he had without the armor. Kicking the sides of the horse, it responded as such and the numbers on that particular corner of his vision increased. His vision blurred of a very speedy escape from this area, as he controlled and maneuvered the robotic beast with all of his concentration. He hoped he would be able to get to the New Windsor Camp, drop the young woman and her information off, and get help back down to Caleb and the others in time.

* * *

_New Windsor Camp_

 

“I apologize sir, but this cannot wait,” Hamilton began without preamble as the heavy canvas flaps to the tent were suddenly thrown open. Even as his aide strolled in, Hamilton continued to say, “We have received Major Tallmadge and a young woman that he was protecting. He claims that she is an asset of vital importance, and that you must come with all haste to hear what she brings.”

Washington immediately nodded, hearing the urgency in his aide's tone, knowing that after several assassination attempts, his aide, nor any members of his inner circle would dismiss any kind of security unless it was immensely vital to the war. Slipping into the cloak that his slave, William, had already picked up and offered, he gestured for his aide to lead the way.

The guards outside the tent snapped to and followed him, along with Hamilton, towards a tent that was near the former demarcation line between the colonial camp and the future-people camp. A few members of the 2nd Continental Light Dragoons were standing outside of the tent, alert and on guard. At Hamilton's nod towards them, they stepped aside.

Not a moment later, he saw Hamilton open the flap and entered. Major Tallmadge and a slightly disheveled-looking woman with dark hair, wearing a plain-patterned, dark working dress were within the tent, though it looked as if they had just arrived and barely caught their breaths. There were brambles and bits of leaves and sticks still upon both of them, as if they had ridden here with all haste. Added to their appearance was the acute smell of gunpowder; the two of them had ridden to camp under incredible circumstances – they had been pursued. However, he found it odd that there was no sign of a horse or horses being led away when he had approached.

“Major Tallmadge?” he questioned expectantly.

“Sir, this is Miss Mary Floyd. She is one of General Greene's agents, whom claims to have intelligence for both you and Lieutenant General Washington. Agent Sackett, myself, and Mr. Tallmadge managed to intercept her at the tavern near Green's farms before the British could,” his Head of Intelligence introduced.

“To draw them into confusion, Mr. Tallmadge and I rode in different directions; him towards Easton, I towards Stratford. Our hope was to meet up in Waterbury with the militiamen positioned there. However, our pursuers, at least two troops worth, caught up to us in Fairfield. Were it not for the timely arrival of Lieutenant Brewster and Mr. Alton-Tallmadge, I fear that neither myself nor Miss Floyd would have survived.”

Washington heard Tallmadge pause for a moment before continuing to say, “Though I know my duty is to stay here and listen to what Miss Floyd has brought for Intelligence purposes, I do not wish to leave the two or Mr. Tallmadge and Agent Sackett at the mercy of the British soldiers. I request permission to ride out with the 2nd Light to pursue and drive away the British from the area, sir.”

While he knew that Tallmadge did not bring unsubstantiated rumors or the like, his Head of Intelligence did usually verify and wrote reports from his sources, rather than present actual agents to him. Before he could respond to the request though, the pained whinnies and snorts of horses thundering into camp were heard. Several shouts were heard outside the tent, and Washington wordlessly turned slightly, gesturing for Hamilton to go out and see what the ruckus was about.

It didn't take long for his aide to return, though when Hamilton entered, the expression on the man's face was jubilant, to say the least. “Two prisoners sir!” Hamilton stated with barely contained excitement. “Lieutenant Brewster and the others managed to capture two of the British pursuers while the rest had turned tail and fled.”

Washington glanced back towards his Head of Intelligence, noting that there was relief shining though his eyes. “Any injured?” he asked.

“None would say, sir,” Hamilton answered.

“Then please escort them in, for I am quite certain that they would like to know what they have risked their lives for – for this piece of Intelligence that may affect more than just this army.” To Miss Floyd, he said, “I hope you will forgive this intrusion on your briefing, but if this information is as vital as my Head of Intelligence claims it to be, then these people who risked their lives do deserve to learn what it is.”

“I do not mind, sir,” the young woman answered. “I thank them and Major Tallmadge for bringing me to safe haven.”

It was only because he had never heard of the British sending more than a troop or even fewer men to pursue spies, that he allowed others not among his inner circle to attend – but only this one time. Miss Mary Floyd must have carried some incredibly vital information from those Continentals, French, and Russian forces stationed south to warrant such an extreme response by the British. Though he was curious as to how exactly four people managed to make at least two troops of British forces, if not more turn tail, and manage to capture two prisoners, that would be a puzzle to solve later.

Hamilton left again, and a few moments later, the tent flap opened again, with the four who had been riding with Tallmadge entering. They looked even filthier, if not more covered in the elements than Tallmadge or Miss Floyd. None looked injured, though there was an inscrutable look within Alton-Tallmadge's eyes as the four gathered around, effectively placing Miss Floyd in the center of the briefing circle.

“Miss Floyd?” Washington began questioning a moment later, as he returned to the matter at hand. The woman looked somewhat familiar to him, in the sense that he had probably met a certain family member of hers before. “William Floyd, formerly of the New York Congressional delegation, is your father, is he not?”

“Yes, he is, sir,” the woman said, curtsying slightly. Washington managed to keep his expression still as he saw Alton-Tallmadge's eyebrows raise up in utter surprise. It was the first time he had seen the man react to anything thus far in this war without any dismissive tone or expression. Fortunately, the former commander of the Third Section was standing behind the young woman, and thus she was not privy to his reaction. It also told Washington that this woman, or at least General Floyd was fairly important in the war – but for what, he was unsure at the moment.

“In an effort to aid the cause, my father mustered those he could in Connecticut's militia and brought them to fight under General Greene's command. I followed my father and his camp down south. It is now that I bring you a most unusual observation,” Floyd continued, her tone matching that of one who was used to briefing commanders and the like.

There was some deference in that tone, but Washington suspected that perhaps Floyd was understating her role within her father and Greene's camps. He nodded for her to continue, and she said, “My fellow camp followers and I wash the men's clothing along the York River, usually from sun up to sun down. Occasionally, some of the other officers, such as kind and gentlemanly Colonel Laurens, or General Lafayette, would perch themselves upon Gloucester Point. They watched for the enemy forces up and down the river and across it through their spyglasses.”

“There was a night though, when I had left something by the river and returned to retrieve it just after sunset. I spotted something unusual across, as if it were a lantern of sorts, but shining ever brighter than any lantern might. It was almost as bright as the sun itself. I reported this finding to Colonel Laurens, but a careful excursion across the river yielded nothing out of the ordinary, except for the build up of earthenworks. Redoubts, as General Lafayette has stated to me.”

She paused for a moment before reaching deep into a sewn-in pocket within her dress, withdrawing two pieces of folded parchment, one thicker than the other. She silently handed the thicker one to him, while keeping the thinner one that looked more like a missive than anything else towards her. As Washington unfolded the thick one, it slowly revealed itself to be a map of the area – specifically of Yorktown and its surroundings, including Williamsburg. While he was familiar with the area, having drawn up some additional surveys of the region in his younger days, the details on this particular map were more than just what a surveyor would put down.

Small lettering and drawings of the redoubts, along with the placement of powerful batteries and small cannonades dotted the area. Troop numbers and positions were also detailed, though no ships or their numbers were on the map. He could only assume that Admiral de Grasse was keeping the British fleet busy. This map was what he had dreamed of receiving from his spies – only that it was of Yorktown, and not of New York City. There were, however, the most curious of marks that he did not understand, nor was there a legend to decipher it. Unfortunately, it was also denoted in several clusters around the redoubts, the coastline, and near buildings where British officers had been observed.

“How did you come by this, Miss Floyd?” he asked, looking up from the map, unable to contain his awe at just how detailed it was, regardless of the strange marking.

“General Layfayette detailed the map based upon mine and others' observations surrounding Yorktown,” she answered.

“And these markings?” he asked.

“Added after I informed the commanders about the odd lantern,” she began, folding her hands together and looked a little less confident than she initially had been. “After that first excursion across the river yielded nothing, I had not known that Colonel Laurens had undertaken another excursion. The night was covered in such thick fog that when we heard the first shot so close to camp, a few of us working at the surgeons' tents thought that another soldier within the camp had misfired his flintlock while cleaning it. It was genuinely a mistake by the sentries who guarded the shores. They had heard Colonel Laurens say the challenge answer several times, but with the fog so thick, and the waves of the York River lapping so loud in the silence, they could not pinpoint where he was coming from.”

“He was shot. By our own men,” Washington bluntly stated, anger rising at such idiocy.

“Yes,” she nodded, pausing for a moment before holding up the other letter, saying, “I was ordered by General Lafayette to give this letter to Colonel Hamilton.”

“Does he draw breath?” Hamilton immediately demanded before Washington could admonish or utter a word.

The poor woman was startled by his aide's demeanor, though surprisingly, held her ground and did not take the half-step back that he had expected her to. It was quite remarkable, but he cut short his observation and sternly stated, “Colonel Hamilton.”

At once, his aide stepped back, and Washington addressed the young woman, saying, “I apologize for his behavior, and my neglect to introduce you to my aide, Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Hamilton.”

Silently, though still slightly hesitant, she nodded, before extending the envelope again towards Hamilton, saying, “I know not what it says, but I hope it contains good news about Colonel Laurens, sir.”

“Thank you,” Hamilton managed to say, albeit it was in a stiff manner. “And I apologize for my actions towards you, Miss Floyd,” his aide stated in a quieter, more apologetic tone.

“The markings?” Washington asked, returning their attention to the matter at hand. No matter how much he too would also like to know of what happened to one of his most trusted aides after being shot by his own men, he knew that Hamilton would inform him later as to what the letter from Lafayette contained.

“Before Colonel Laurens would allow the surgeon to extract the bullet within him, he made those markings on the map, sir,” she answered. “General Lafayette told me that he only managed to understand two words from what Colonel Laurens was saying about the markings. 'Gauss' and 'fusion'.”

At this Washington glanced up and over the young woman's head, only to see that none of the people from the future could puzzle out what the two words meant. It would have to be discussed and puzzled out later, as a copy would have to be sent with Agent Sackett to his counterpart. However, there was one more thing that he wanted to ask, before he would be able to solidify his opinions on the matter. “Miss Floyd, when did your pursuers begin pursuing you?”

“My escort, Lieutenant Creighton, who is an aide of General Greene, and I ran into a small patrol patrol group just outside of Philadelphia. I knew not who they were, though I had thought they were militiamen because of their dressage. They recognized my escort and he urged me to continue onto our destination, which was at the tavern where I met Major Tallmadge and the others. He drew the patrol group away.”

“The patrol group, can you describe them, Miss Floyd?” Tallmadge jumped in, as Washington saw a clear frown grace his expression.

“Green jackets with tall helms of black and a silver moon emblem, sir,” she answered. “The strangest part about them were that none carried flintlocks and were carrying the oddest looking things in their hands to which I can only presume to be weapons of a kind. I also am unsure if their horses were suffering from an equine form of the yellow-eyed fever. Their eyes were oddly red.”

“Queen's Rangers,” Tallmadge stated.

Washington could only conclude that one of the Queen's Rangers must've ridden forward to alert a garrison force to the young woman's presence. Still, there was some doubt in his mind on the veracity of the information, despite the cost it had taken to get it. However, he did not voice that thought – his own correspondences and intelligence sharing with a certain commander could not yet be divulged to the others. At least not until he knew for sure what 'Gauss' and 'fusion' combined with Laurens's markings on the map meant.

“I thank you, Miss Floyd, for the risks that you have taken to get this information here. Please accept the hospitality that the camp offers and rest. I will find some way to convey to your father that you have made it safely here.”

“Thank you, General Washington,” the young woman answered, curtsying slightly.

“Agent Sackett, Colonel Hamilton will make a copy of the map for your commander.” At Sackett's nod of affirmation, he returned his attention to the group before him, saying, “You are all dismissed. Mr. Alton-Tallmadge, please stay. I wish to briefly speak with you, alone.”

As those gathered in the tent trickled out, Washington clasped his hands behind him and faced the former commander of the future Russian secret police force, Third Section. When the tent flap finally stilled, he stated, “Never have I seen you react as so with regards to anyone or anything in this era, Mr. Alton-Tallmadge. Tell me, why did the invocation of Miss Floyd's name garner such a reaction?”

“She was, and apparently still is the historical wife of your Head of Intelligence,” the man bluntly stated. “I had not expected her to be quite as active as history had portrayed her to be, within this war.”

He remained silent at that revelation, but neither did Alton-Tallmadge offer any more information on Mary Floyd. “Then am I correct to assume that neither my Head of Intelligence, or his counterpart know of Miss Floyd's 'history' to carry out in this future that we are trying to save?”

“No,” the man confirmed. “Nor do I intend to tell either of them or anyone else. To do so may cause possible chains of events that may be detrimental to the future we are from.”

“Then why are you here? Last I granted you permission was to go to Long Island and augment Mr. Roe and his observations. Did Agent Strong state that there would be British troops quartered among you?”

“My being here has confirmed that despite being absolved of his crimes, something has physically changed within former General Tallmadge during his time in captivity. My only guess is that Commandant Sheridan had a hand in it, so that he cannot sense when your Head of Intelligence is in danger. I felt the danger, more so with Miss Floyd than with Major Tallmadge.”

“Then you believe she should be sent to safe haven, to be removed from her current duties?” he asked.

“Frankly, I don't give a damn what you choose to do,” the man answered, shrugging.

Washington felt his anger rise at such blatant display of disrespect, but managed to keep most of his anger from his tone. He could yell, growl, or even clearly show his displeasure at the man, but Alton-Tallmadge had absolutely no fear of any sort of consequences that would befall him. That itself was dangerous, and he knew that the man only stayed and did as he told – which was find a way to separate the eras and get the formula concocted. Alton-Tallmadge wanted out of this era as much as Washington did not want this war to get ever more convoluted. So he tolerated the man... for now.

“Then you will stay and guard Miss Floyd until we can concoct a proper excuse to send you back to Long Island to continue your duties,” he said.

“As you wish,” Alton-Tallmadge simply stated before leaving without any other sort of salute, nod, or acknowledgment of what just transpired.

Washington watched the flap to the tent close before silently pulling out a letter that he had been reading before the camp had been disturbed with the arrival of Miss Floyd. Unfolding it and glancing down at the signature, he silently nodded to himself and folded it back up. The letter had confirmed what he and his counterpart had long thought about Director Andre and his orders to the two assassins. Without the two, it would be all but impossible to get the future-people back to their eras.

The trap for the British and Britannian forces were almost complete – all he needed now was Arnold captured and out of the way, and the numbers for New York.

~~~

After ensuring that Miss Floyd was being looked to by Natalie, Ben returned to his tent, only to find that a copy of the latest gazette had been placed upon the foot of his cot, most likely by one of his men who knew that he read the Royal Gazette out of necessity. As much as he wanted to shuck himself out of his dirt-and-bramble covered uniform and find some fresh pan of water to at least wash his face, he didn't. Picking up the gazette, he skimmed the first page and his eyes caught onto an advertisement.

Three lace cravats, the advertisement stated.

It was the signal that had been worked out through Hamilton's tailor friend, Hercules Mulligan. It meant that Abe was ready to spring the trap. But what of the numbers for New York? Nothing else in the advertisement stated the other code words for any New York numbers. Still, a trap was a trap, and this time, he was determined not to let Benedict Arnold escape again.

“Ben,” he heard his counterpart's voice before the flap to his tent was opened.

“Signal from Culper,” he stated, looking up and was about to wave the gazette slightly, but aborted the action. Firstly, his counterpart almost never addressed him by his given name, even in shortened form. Secondly, there was an unusually grave and concerned look gracing his counterpart's expression. “What happened?” he immediately asked.

“You need to talk to Brewster,” Benji stated. “There's something really wrong with him, and he's refusing to tell Nat or me about it. Uncle Julian told us that Brewster _severed_ the heads of two British patrolmen on the coast of Long Island, right where Anna and Andrew were living. Then, when we drew off those troops...”

As his counterpart paused for a moment, shaking his head slightly, it took Ben a couple of moments to realize 'Uncle Julian' referred to Benji's uncle, Julian Alton-Tallmadge. He had never seen the two display any sort of familial affection or anything related to that in the time that Alton-Tallmadge had been among them. Everyone seemed to keep their distance from the man who looked so much like Ben's father, but was not. To hear Benji refer to Alton-Tallmadge as 'Uncle Julian' was quite odd, but then again, four hundred years into the future may have redefined what family meant.

“You really need to talk to him, Ben,” Benji continued, “This animalistic brutality that he's displaying... I'm really concerned about his mental stability and fitness to perform his duties to the Ring and to the Army.”

Ben frowned. He had known that Caleb had been recalcitrant and reticent lately, but this new information coming from his counterpart was very concerning. He had given his friend some space to possibly work out whatever was plaguing him, had been patient with him, but now it seemed that things had come to a head.

“All right, I will,” he agreed, “but after we capture General Arnold,” he said, waving the gazette slightly before handing it over to his counterpart. “Signal from Culper – he's ready to set the trap to capture Arnold. I need you to go with Caleb for this. Will you be able to do that?”

“I will be able to, sir,” his counterpart stated with absolutely no emotional inflection in his tone. The gravely concerned expression that had been gracing his face was also gone.

Ben nodded, took the gazette back, and stepped out of the tent, hearing his counterpart follow him, though at a distance. As he walked around the camp, looking for any signs of Caleb, he finally spotted his friend standing at a campfire near the middle of the camp. Caleb seemed to be doing nothing at the moment except poking the fire with a stick, so he called out, “Caleb!”

Nothing. Not even a movement or sign that Caleb had heard him was seen by him. His friend continued to seemingly stare at the fire and occasionally poking it with a stick in quite a sharp manner, as if entranced by the mere sight of it. Puzzled by the lack of response, he approached and called out again, “Caleb!”

There was still no acknowledgment. Ben stopped before his friend, and strangely enough, Caleb just kept poking the fire, ignoring everything around him. Deciding that shouting Caleb's name in his friend's ear was not going to do any good, he reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder, shaking him slightly.

That finally got his friend's attention as Caleb jumped slightly under his touch. “Did you not hear me calling for you?” he asked, his counterpart's words surfacing in his thoughts. So far, all he had seen was Caleb poking the fire – it was something that they all did. There was nothing violent or untoward in that action.

“S-sorry,” his friend stuttered slightly, sounding a little more slurred than usual. Ben thought he caught a scent of Madeira coming from Caleb's breath as his friend turned his head slightly towards him. “F-fire must've mesmerized me.”

Deciding the push on, he brought the gazette forward and placed it so that it was eye level to where Caleb was sitting. “We got a signal from New York,” he stated. “Three lace cravats. It means that we need to go tomorrow. That doesn't leave much time to row down the Hudson.”

“Yeah, second rower would make it faster...” Caleb began before trailing off and returned his gaze to the fire.

“Caleb?” he asked, this time a touch more concerned than usual. “Caleb, are you feeling all right?” He really did not want to have this particular conversation here and now, not when they had so little time to respond to Abe's message. “I'm sending Benji with you as a second rower. Are you going to be all right?”

At once, Caleb looked up at him, with a gleam in his eyes that Ben did not like at all. “Yeah, fine,” his friend answered, before raising his hand that held the neck of the Madeira that he had been drinking and took a rather long swig from it.

Annoyed at his friend's rather childish behavior, Ben admonished him, saying, “Are you done drinking yet?”

In response, Ben saw Caleb continue to drink, not even bothering to clean up after himself or stop gulping the Madeira as some of it leaked out from the sides of the bottle and down the beard. As alarming and abrupt as it was, it suddenly stopped as Caleb finally put the bottle down with a flourish and clapped him in the arm, saying, “Now I am.”

He could only frown, but refrained from saying anything else as he stepped back and Caleb stepped away, as if not even impeded by just how much he had drunk. The bottle of Madeira was almost empty by the looks of it. As he watched his friend stalk off towards the docks on the river, he shook his head. Glancing over towards where his counterpart had stood a respectful distance away, he caught him shaking his head as well before his counterpart followed after Caleb.

Benji was right – something was wrong with Caleb, and he could no longer put off any sort of excuse in his mind for his friend's behavior as of late. After this mission, after the capture of Arnold, he would have to find some time to sit his friend down for a long, heartfelt talk about what was bothering him. At least he hoped he had time after this to do something for Caleb.

~~~

“Thomas!” Mary exasperatedly called out as she abandoned her hanging of the clothes along the line that was strung from the tent she and her son stayed in, to the wagon that contained so many oddities. She ran after her son who giggled and tottered away, clutching the tiny figurine of a soldier that had the additional accessory of a tiny cloth sling, indicating that it was an injured soldier.

Groaning softly to herself as her son slipped into a tent, she shook her head and made her way up the slight hill, glad that he had not chosen to run further into the camp. At least he had chosen to run within the periphery of where Major Tallmadge had warned her not cross – lest someone see her and Thomas, when they should've been mistaken for being 'dead'.

She hated the situation, but there was no helping it. She was grateful, though, that Tallmadge had the grace to allow or convince Washington to allow her and her son to stay. However, she felt useless here – day in and day out washing clothes that other camp followers had not time to do, or cooking the most bland, tepid, and unappetizing meals for her and her son. She wished she could have returned to Setauket with Anna, Anna's descendant Agent Strong, Mr. Sackett and his family, but then it would've completely destroyed Abe's cover. Hewlett would've found out she was alive, and thus inform British High Command.

Reaching the tent in which her son had disappeared into, she lifted the flap and said, “Thomas--”

She blinked in surprise – the tent was occupied. Not by soldiers, but by a lovely-looking young woman she did not recognize, along with Agent Sackett who held Thomas bouncing in her lap, and by “Reverend Tallmadge?” she whispered in surprise.

She had heard rumors from young Lottie Sackett before the Sackett family left, that an attempt had been done to rescue the captive Reverend Tallmadge from somewhere outside of Philadelphia. It had failed – with the Reverend killed by the British during that attempt.

“No,” the man bluntly and in a rather rude tone, stated.

“Oh,” she answered, managing to keep herself from looking too flustered, as she frowned.

“Excuse me,” the man who was not-Reverend Tallmadge said, before abruptly getting up and leaving.

It was Thomas's rather happy giggle that she returned her attention to the matter at hand. “Thomas!” she admonished, focusing on her son as the elegantly poised Agent Sackett lifted her son up and into her arms. Hugging him close to her, she saw Agent Sackett gracefully extend her hand out. Lying on her palm was the 'injured' soldier figurine, and Mary reached out to take it as well.

There was a certain stately, calm air about the woman from the future that Mary had seen – even during hers, Thomas, and the Strong family's escape from New Haven, and in the short times that she had seen the woman around the camp. The upbringing that seemed to be carried around Agent Sackett spoke not of the grace that she had seen some high society women carry, but more refined... more noble, for the lack of a better word. Agent Sackett's presence in the camp always seemed to turn many heads, especially the foreign ones. There were also many rumors floating around the camp that the woman held the affections of Major Tallmadge, but they were just that – rumors.

Before she could leave or give her thanks to Agent Sackett for ensuring that her son did not make a mess of things, the woman got up, saying, “If you would please excuse me, I'm sure Miss Floyd here would enjoy your company more than mine or Mr. Alton-Tallmadge. I also must see to the information that I need to bring back to my commander.”

Mary barely remembered her manners as Agent Sackett stepped past her. She was still surprised that despite the lack of contact with barely any other persons within the camp because of just how precarious Abe's cover was, Agent Sackett was encouraging her to talk to this woman. “I wish you a safe journey, Agent Sackett, and thank you for taking care of Thomas, however brief it was.”

“It was my pleasure, Mrs. Woodhull,” she answered and left without another word.

Adjusting her hold on Thomas, she extended a hand out towards the woman saying, “Mary Woodhull. This is my son Thomas.”

“Mary Floyd,” the woman stated, standing up and taking her hand to shake it. “Please,” she then said, gesturing for her to have a seat on the cot that Agent Sackett had vacated. “This camp is certainly much larger than the one I had been working in. I know not if I am to be integrated into this camp and its followers, or if I will be granted an escort to continue on my journey. However, considering the circumstances that brought me here, it is most likely I will remain here for the time being.”

“Where... how did you come here?” she asked, curious as to why Agent Sackett, whom she had seen never interact with any other camp followers, had sat down with this particular woman.

“I followed my father, General William Floyd, as he mustered men from Connecticut to assist General Greene down south. It was becoming dangerous, and thus he sent me with an escort back up to our family in Wethersfield,” she stated. “Unfortunately, we were accosted by British patrols in no-man's lands. My escort sought to draw the soldiers away and told me to keep going. Thankfully, I ran into a Major Tallmadge and a small patrol unit of his.”

“Oh,” she couldn't help but blink in surprise. That answered the question as to why she had heard the thundering of hooves, whinnies of horses, and shouts earlier. “Well, if General Washington allows you to stay, I'm sure that some word may be sent to your father and family to let them know that you are safe.”

“Thank you,” Floyd stated, a small smile appearing on her face. “Your husband... is he serving here as well?”

“Yes,” she said, but did not elaborate.

“Ah,” Floyd said, nodding slightly. “If you don't mind my presumption, Mrs. Woodhull, the name 'Woodhull' is not common around Wethersfield or her surrounding towns. However, I do remember a Judge Richard Woodhull, magistrate of Setauket on Long Island. Might you be related to that family?”

Caught unawares, Mary blinked, unconsciously holding Thomas closer to her. Abe had warned her countless of times that their name was no longer protected, no longer considered Tory-leaning – especially when Abe had publicly defended Major Tallmadge in his court-martial. However, she could not deny the truth, as it was evident on her face, and the reaction that it garnered from Mary Floyd and her conspicuous silence. Mary wondered why Agent Sackett had left her here and allowed her to talk with this woman – surely it was not a trap?

“Abraham Woodhull is my husband. His father is Judge Woodhull,” she stated at last.

“The same Abraham Woodhull, who apparently does not share his father's Tory-leanings, and that the Patriot gazettes declared a most excellent lawyer to have acquitted Major Tallmadge of conspiracy against General Washington?” Floyd asked, raising her eyebrows in surprise.

“Um... yes,” she nodded, feeling a little relieved that there seemed to be no ill judgment upon her or her husband.

“No truer Patriot than I ever see before me,” the woman stated, with a wide smile upon her face, “My father would not stop talking about the article, saying how it had been an impossible task laid out. He stated that the arguments that led to the acquittal showed just how well versed in the intricacies of law Major Tallmadge's lawyer was. My father had been magistrate of Mastic, before the British invaded. My family left for Connecticut before they could arrest us.”

“Circumstances for us as well, forced us to leave,” she answered, agreeing.

“If I may, Mary,” Floyd began, leaning slightly towards her in eagerness, “I would like to convey my father's praise to your husband on such a magnificent display of his grasp at law?”

“Um,” she began, unsure as to how to proceed, as it was extremely strange to be on the receiving end of praise after living their lives as quietly as possible before being thrown into this spying mess. While she was somewhat certain that Floyd did not mean any harm – otherwise, Agent Sackett would most definitely not have introduced them – she still was careful enough to not want to reveal her husband's status as a spy for General Washington. “I do not see him often as he is on near constant duty, but when I do, I will be sure to ask and convey your request, Miss Floyd.”

* * *

_New York City_

 

As much as Abe was excited to be finally wrapping up a mission that had long given him many sleepless nights whenever drills did not cause him to sleep in exhaustion, it was mostly the gathering of information that Washington needed that contributed to his sleepless nights. That and finding a way to recapture Arnold from under the noses of the British.

“You _have_ to try to find a way into Fort St. George, Woodhull,” Townsend's rather sharp words brought him out of his brief musings. “We don't have much time left before this Arnold plan of yours is executed.”

They were currently in the cellar that contained all of the necessary items needed to encrypt, decode, and compile for the data that they needed to send to Washington. The last of the Long Island numbers were to be dropped soon, since he knew that Anna and the others in Setauket would have already seen the advertisement in the Gazette as well. The signal had already been sent out by Mulligan – both of them had seen it printed in the Royal Gazette, and Ben's man would be here in less than three days.

“I know, I know,” he said, sighing as he ran a frustrated hand through his hair.

“That's the only place where my people, me, or those on Long Island cannot go, Woodhull!” Townsend pressed.

“I know!” he said, frustration lacing his tone as he snapped his words at the Quaker. “All right! I know that!”

It had been Townsend and his people who had done most, if not all of the gathering of troop numbers, placement, and the like within the city. Abe had been on patrol, in training, or otherwise sufficiently occupied with mucking out the outhouses on shift duty that he had barely any free time. It was only because he managed to negotiate trading sentry duties for the night Arnold was to be abducted that he managed to finally get at least an hour's break. That break was the excuse to get some promised rum for the men he had managed to convince to trade their duties.

“I'll try,” he said, shaking his head and holding up a hand to stop Townsend from saying anything further with regards to the fort. “But if I can't, we at least have visual observations of the outside we can give to 711.”

And that was the crux of it. Visual observations of Fort St. George were only going to do so much, for it was the only fort that did not look like any of the forts surrounding the city or dotting Long Island. Instead of the usual walls of logs, stone, and parapets of armaments that indicated just how fortified the fort was, there had been absolutely no sighting of a cannon peeking out from the fort. It was also extremely restricted in terms of who was allowed in and out, and that had made both him and Townsend suspicious.

The closest he had gotten to the fort was when a training exercise had been conducted with those British soldiers quartered on Staten Island. He had been about a hundred yards from the outer perimeter of the fort when he had felt the strangest clack and hum sing across his teeth and ears. Were it not for the fact that he had been exposed to the weaponry that the future-people had carried, fired, and thrown, he would have dismissed it as a strange, but brief ailment.

However, that hum and clicking feeling he had gotten told them that the fort was more than it seemed. Though he could not espy any Britannian soldiers amongst those walking in and out of the fort, he suspected that perhaps Fort St. George was a Britannian outpost, or where Britannian soldiers had retreated to after their defeat at Fort West Point. All of that speculation had been written down in code, and he hoped that Washington would accept it in lieu of his actual scouting of the fort.

Even with Townsend breathing down his neck about pulling his weight on the numbers, Abe was not sure that he had the influence to even convince Arnold to send him for an errand or some excuse into the fort. He just hoped that Anna, Andrew Strong, Austin Roe, and the others had better luck in their counts for the various forts.

* * *

 

_Setauket_

 

“Mrs. Strong, Mr. Roe is here with your requested delivery... of a box of jacks?” Anna heard Ensign Baker call out to her. She had seen Baker before, around town, and quartered with Abe and his wife when they still had been living in Setauket. However, he and a few other heavily armed men, were newly assigned to watch over her, Andrew, and the Sackett family after the gruesome discovery of four brutally murdered British soldiers and the savage destruction of property.

“Ah, yes,” she said, looking up as she placed the ladle down and dusted her hands. Going over to where Baker stood with the door not quite fully open, but with a firm hand on his rifle, she stepped over to the side to see the pleasant face of Austin Roe.

“Thank you Mr. Roe,” she said, as he gave her the box of jacks, though it looked like the box had been opened. She expected it to be so, for that was one of the many conditions that Major Hewlett had put down on the condition to let them stay. A search of any property that was being given or brought by her, Andrew, or even the Sackett family, even from the market was to be thoroughly examined to ensure that nothing espionage-related was being passed on.

“How much for this again?” she asked.

“Nothing, Mrs. Strong,” Roe answered. “I heard about what happened to Reverend Tallmadge, and to the Sackett's apothecary and home. Shame about that. I hope the children enjoy the gift, however inadequate it may be for such a loss. Can't believe that the damn rebels would even think of attacking an innocent man or his wife, especially when we need an apothecary. All just to abduct Reverend Tallmadge?”

Anna silently nodded in agreement – as soon as Caleb had left with the not-Reverend Tallmadge, both Mr. Sackett and Andrew had concocted the best story they could to give the excuse for four dead British soldiers. Two of them had died in such a ghastly manner by Caleb's hands, while the other two had been ambushed and killed by Andrew as further cover. The apothecary that Mrs. Sackett had set up was deliberately set on fire. Mr. Sackett had then demanded that Andrew beat him in order to make it look more authentic.

She had seen the utter reluctance in Andrew's eyes to do such a thing, and it heartened her to know that despite Andrew's rather cold demeanor whenever performing a task for a mission, there was still a kind and gentle soul within him. Andrew had then wrapped his hands in cloth to preserve his own hands so that suspicion did not fall on him, and had done as Mr. Sackett requested. After that, he had taken a knife, and to Anna's horror, stabbed himself to make it look as if he too had been attacked.

Anna had not needed any more incentive to know that her role was to run and get help. Her pleas to the first British patrolmen she had seen, and eventually to Major Hewlett were genuine. She had not known then that Andrew had stabbed himself in a non-vital area – she had thought that he was going to die from the self-inflicted stab wound.

Now, with the fire put out, and only the husk of a once robust apothecary remaining, the Sackett family was huddled upstairs taking stock of the fact that they had come out of the 'attack' with their lives intact. She had been cooking some stew to take up to the family when Roe and his delivery of jacks showed up. The jacks were authentic, but she knew that it also contained the final numbers that Washington needed for Long Island.

For the life of her, she could not figure out why Caleb had decided to show up directly in front of the house – risking all of them. He was supposed to have gone to the dead drop instead, to collect information from all of them. Even more puzzling was just what was the matter with him. Never had she seen him do something like that to anyone, not even during the winter New Haven battle against Governor Tryon's forces. It was very unsettling, and she could only hope that perhaps Ben would be able to figure out what was going on with Caleb and his strange actions.

“Thank you Mr. Roe,” she said. “You are too generous. I will pass on your well wishes to the Sacketts.”

With their farewells said, she returned inside and after giving a quick check to make sure that the stew was not going to be burnt anytime soon, she went upstairs. Peeking into her room that she shared with Andrew, she saw him lying on the bed, eyes open and looking slightly bored. Andrew always insisted on sleeping on the floor whenever they 'retired' for the night, refusing and eschewing any sort of comfort that a small bed of hay or pillow laid on the floor might bring. All he had requested was just a blanket – and even then, it was a thin one.

Silently, she pointed to the box in her hands, and saw him perk up. Though he was supposed to be laid up in bed, recovering and not moving around to rip the stitching that the doctor had completed a few hours ago, he sat up. It was only because he had brought with him, hidden carefully away, a strange small box that contained medical wonders of the 22nd century. He had applied and healed himself enough that he was able to move – whereas she knew that stab wounds such as the one he had inflicted upon himself, took weeks to recover from.

She saw him nod once, indicating that she should go deliver it to its intended recipient first, and that he would join in the knowledge sharing as soon as he was able to. He was on his recovery bed, but that did not mean that the British soldiers quartered in their house were still watching. He would have to be sneaky enough to avoid their gazes whenever they patrolled or walked around the ground floor.

Exiting the bedroom, she walked across the landing and to the other side of the house, entering one of the rooms where the Sackett family currently resided. Mr. Sackett was still lying on the bed, while Mrs. Sackett was in a corner, preparing some salve with what herbs she was able to recover. The children, pretty Lottie and curiously shy David, were sitting on the floor, reciting Latin phrases to each other.

“Message from Mr. Roe,” she said in a low tone as soon as she had closed the door behind her while holding up the box of jacks.

“Ah,” Mr. Sackett answered, immediately sitting up on the bed, despite looking worse for wear. Little David stopped his recitation, while Lottie continued, and it was only with her elbowing her brother that the young boy continued to speak. The two provided an adequate amount of noise to hopefully cover whatever else was going to be discussed.

Handing the box over to Lottie, she gently took it, opened it, and dumped the small jacks into her hands. Some spilled onto the floor, but it didn't matter. The box was then handed to her mother, who took it and examined it against the sunlight streaming through the windows. Anna watched as she tried to puzzle out where exactly the message was hidden, but it seemed that either there was no message, or it was very cleverly hidden that even Mrs. Sackett could not find it.

“If you would please?” Mr. Sackett began, extending a hand out towards his wife.

It only took Mr. Sackett a few moments to puzzle out where the message may have been hidden, when he said, “I will need to borrow that knife, dear. It seems that this message is stuck between pages.”

After the knife being used to cut herbs into their appropriate sizes was given to the man, Anna saw him slide the tip into the inner lining on the box cover. Like an expert in filleting a fish from its bone, she saw him gently pry the paper liner from the wax that sealed it. A thinly folded piece of parchment was revealed to be stuck between the cover and liner.

“And the last of the fort numbers has come,” was all Mr. Sackett said as he placed the knife down and held the vital piece of information between two fingers. “We may yet win this war.”

* * *

_A few hours later, at the New Windsor Camp..._

 

In the time in which he had received the gazette with the signal, to making sure Caleb and Benji were on their way down the Hudson, he knew that it had been remiss of him to inform Mary Woodhull of her husband's impending retrieval. Abe's wife had been kept relatively isolated, but had not bothered him too much for information about Abe's status within the city. At least not after he had admonished her quite intensely the first and last time she had dared step into his tent without permission, in the officers' section of the camp.

Now though, as he approached the area where Mr. Sackett and his family, Anna, and Agent Strong, had been settled in before they had transferred to Setauket under the guise of seeking refuge, he saw the most curious of sights. Somehow, someone or perhaps Miss Floyd was tired of staying in her temporary tent, she saw Mrs. Woodhull and Miss Floyd gaily chatting while hanging up laundry. Little Thomas was sitting next to the basket, playing with a small figurine of an injured soldier. Even stranger was Alton-Tallmadge, over in a corner and chopping wood that was to be used for the campfire in the area.

The sight of such normalcy from Alton-Tallmadge's actions, along with the two women that created a sense of a home-like atmosphere was so out of sorts within the camp that Ben had to pause for a moment and rub his eyes. A pang seared through his heart at seeing Alton-Tallmadge's wood chopping actions – it reminded him too much of his father doing the same thing the last time he and his father had had a heart-to-heart discussion. That moment passed as his approach was noticed by the three, and he closed the distance.

“Mrs. Woodhull, if I may have a word with you?” he asked, stopping just shy of entering the campsite proper. He wondered how Mrs. Woodhull and Miss Floyd had been introduced, but knew that Abe's wife had a good head on her shoulders to not compromise herself, even with another Continental agent not of the Culper Ring. Abe's description to him of what Mary Woodhull had done in the years to ensure her family's safety since Abe began spying for the Continentals told him so.

Washington had not given him orders as to what was to be done with Miss Floyd, but Ben was hesitant to incorporate her into his Ring. It was one thing to know that she operated in a similar capacity as Abe and Anna had, but he had the sense that she was a valuable asset to General Greene and her own father as well. As much as he wanted to send her back down, the pursuit and the fact that there were Queen's Rangers near or around Philadelphia made it difficult.

He could not ask Natalie to be Miss Floyd's escort, for she was already on her way back to wherever Lieutenant General Washington had made her camp. Natalie was carrying a copy of the map that Miss Floyd had upon her. He had also wanted to send an escort with her, but with all things considered, he did not voice that thought at all. She had proven time and again that she was able to evade patrols, and was able to take care of herself. That and the curious robotic donkey she revealed she had carried in secret, and used to help drive off the British pursuers told him that she would be quite safe in getting back to her commander.

“Yes?” Abe's wife answered, a slightly apprehensive look upon her face as she put the blue-red coat she had been in the midst of wringing dry down.

Ben took a few steps away, and she followed, before stopping. In a low tone, he said, “Your husband signaled. We're putting to action a plan to complete his mission and then we'll extract him. He should be back at camp in a few days.”

She was silent for a few moments, before a relieved smile broke out on her face that reflected the joy in her eyes. However, before she could take any other action, a voice shouted, “Major!”

He looked up to see that it had been his counterpart who had shouted for him. “What are you still doing here?” he asked. “You should've left hours ago!”

“It's Caleb,” his counterpart wearily said as soon as he had closed the distance to him. “No matter what I've said to him, or even tried to lift him up, he's not ready to go! I've tried to get him to row, but I don't think he can. He's completely drunk, sir.”

His surprise quickly turned into anger – he did not need to deal with this at the moment – not when time was running far and away from them to capture Arnold. Giving a reassuring nod to Abe's wife, he then followed his counterpart down to the shore. Caleb was languishing against the tree that had a couple of boats tied up to its branches. There was a half-drunk bottle in his hands, and that only served to anger Ben even further.

The two's approach was noticed by Caleb though, and even in a drunken state, he heard him half-shout, “Benny-boy! You know how handsome you are in that uniform? We need to get you a proper _colonial_ lady before the war ends, because Natalie can't stay!”

His cold anger swiftly turned into white hot rage as he stopped before Caleb and growled, “Find this funny, do you?” Caleb's drunken laughter only served to add more to the fire as he continued to grind out, “That you find shirking your responsibility--” Caleb wasn't even listening to him at this point, and Ben had had enough.

He grabbed him by the front of his clothes and bodily hauled him up, pushing Caleb into the trunk of the tree with just enough force to rattle him slightly so that Caleb finally looked at him. “This is a dereliction of duty and you're damn close to court-martial! You hear me?!” he nearly shouted his words.

There was some fight in Caleb as Ben felt him grab a hold of his vest and jacket and pushed back – hard. “Get off!”

Ben yielded, but only just, as Caleb remained upright for the moment. “What?” he asked, still incensed. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I did it,” Caleb began, almost slurring his words to the point where it was incomprehensible, even with Ben this close to him, “to save the mission. All right?! You're better off without me!” Ben saw his eyes flicker to behind him, noticing Benji standing somewhere behind him, before saying, “You all are!”

Incredulous at the words spilling out, Ben could not help but say, “C-can you even hear yourself?!”

“I can't even hear myself!” Caleb said, nearly shouting his words as his voice and something inside of him seemingly broke, bringing a flood of anguish with it. “All I hear are her screams! All I hear are Simcoe's and the Director's laughter! They're still there!” Caleb jabbed at the side of his head, as if he was trying to poke a bayonet into his skull to alleviate the phantom noise. “They won! I can't stop seeing her fall, seeing her burned by them, seeing her being carved open... I can't stop seeing--”

Ben could feel something within his heart break at such misery in front of him. Like the dam that had broken in Caleb's voice, his own anger towards his friend was also slowly being carried away. However, it was much, much too late... if only Caleb had come to him earlier. If only – so many ifs, ands, buts, should've, would've, that he could not deal with – not with time running out. “Caleb,” he calmly stated, “listen to me. That never happened.”

It was true, the surgeons and future-medics had stated they found no sign of extreme or unusual torture upon Carrie's body before she was put onto ice. Only the wounds she had sustained in protecting Caleb were the ones killing or had killed her. And despite his words, it seemed it was not enough to calm his friend down as as Caleb burst into tears.

Over the pain-wracked sobs that seemed like a great heaving of an animal in distress, Ben tried one last time to reach him, saying, “Caleb! Look at me! That never happened!”

It was not working, and damn himself to hell, Ben did not have anymore patience or time to deal with this. Grabbing Caleb by the sides of his head, he forced him to look up and into his eyes, stating, “You know... you could've told me sooner.”

He didn't care if Caleb attempted to bat his hands away – Ben let go – letting Caleb slump back into the trunk of the tree. There was no more time to try to help Caleb dig himself out of the hellhole of misery he had put himself into. There was a mission to complete, and he would complete it without Caleb's help. He was done making excuses for, or tolerating the former whaler's behavior.

Stalking back to where his counterpart was waiting, he said, “Get the boat ready. I'll get dressed and join you shortly.”

“Yes, sir,” Benji answered, with absolutely no inflection in his tone, or emotion showing upon his face in reaction to what had just transpired. It was the mark of a soldier through and through. For the first time in his life, Ben wished that every soldier under his command, especially Caleb, had the discipline that his counterpart was showing.

~~~

“I wonder what that was about,” Mary heard the young woman murmur as the sight of the two Tallmadges disappeared over the hill, most likely making their way to where the boats were laid up on the shore. Though she was still uneasy with the presence of the future-people, the sight of Major Tallmadge and a man who looked exactly like him, except with different hair style and a beard, was confusing.

Before Abe had left for New York, he had laid out exactly who everyone around the so-called 'Ring' was, and pointed out that the man who looked like Major Tallmadge was the Major's descendant – specifically one former Brigadier General Benjamin S. Tallmadge of the US Army. Abe had then explained that the future-Tallmadge had resigned his commission following the court-martial, even though he had been acquitted. The former officer now served as a courier and field agent under Major Tallmadge's command.

Considering how much confidence and trust Abe had placed in her, she dared not reveal or say much about the Ring or her husband's role in it to Floyd. She didn't know exactly what capacity the woman served, though she had a hunch that based upon the story she had been told by the young woman, her role may have been espionage-related. She was certain that civilians did not ride into camp as Major Tallmadge and his cohort had done a few hours earlier with her, and cause a ruckus.

Still, she did not question or poke holes into the woman's story, allowing her to rest easier and perhaps catch her breath in these convoluted times. There had been one person that Abe had not pointed out to her – that was this Mr. Alton-Tallmadge, who was chopping wood at the moment. She had caught his name after Agent Sackett had briefly introduced them, but considering the surname, she was somewhat certain that this Alton-Tallmadge who looked so much like Reverend Tallmadge was of some relation to Major Tallmadge. Another person, perhaps, from the future.

“It looks like you received good news from Major Tallmadge, Mrs. Woodhull?” Floyd asked a moment later.

“Ah yes,” she answered, nodding slightly as she spread out a shirt on the line so that it would dry faster. “The Major received word from my husband's troop that he would be returning to camp soon.” It was not the whole truth, but Mary found that injecting the tiniest of the truth, however much bent it was, made it easier for her to spin and keep her stories consistent.

“That's wonderful news!” the young woman exclaimed.

She smiled, trying to keep her thoughts buoyed as much as possible, for the concern she had seen that turned into clear anger on Tallmadge's expression when his counterpart had stated that Brewster was drunk worried her. She knew that Abe considered Tallmadge and Brewster to be his best friends, and knew that he relied on the two to help him a lot. The fact that Brewster was drunk and unable to go on the mission – most likely to extract Abe, she could only assume – was concerning.

Still, she had to be an attentive conversationalist, and thus, deflected her worry by asking, “And you? Any handsome suitor for you to welcome home in Connecticut?”

“While Wethersfield is a populous town, I have not yet found a suitor to my taste, much to my father's consternation,” the young woman stated, though there was a twinkle in her eyes. “He has always said that I was stubborn and headstrong enough that I could give the Connecticut men in his army some lessons in discipline.”

“General Washington requires that all camp followers already be married to a soldier in camp, before being allowed to join,” she pointed out.

“Which is why I believe that I will no longer be allowed to stay after a few days. I do want to return to my father's side and help him, but I know that he will want me to return to Wethersfield,” the young woman stated, looking disheartened.

“Help?” Mary began, but something out of the corner of her eyes caught her attention. It was Major Tallmadge, coming back up from the shore. However, there was a set way in which he walked which belayed anger, as the officer disappeared back into the camp. Something had happened, and while normally she would not be concerned, extracting Abe from New York was her concern.

“I wonder...” she heard Floyd begin, a slight frown gracing her face.

No more was said between them for the moment as they concentrated on stringing up all the heavy jackets that needed to be dried while the weather was sunny. The minutes passed, and it was the young woman's actions – half hanging up a pair of trousers before stopping that caused Mary to also stop in what she was doing. Major Tallmadge was making his way towards the shore again, except this time, he was not dressed in the Continental blues, but completely in civilian clothing that looked like something a farmer would wear while working in the field.

“Lord, I ask this in prayer that you would please protect Major Tallmadge in whatever task he has been charged with. That he may complete it successfully and not be captured by the British,” she heard the young woman murmur and looked over to see that she had her hands clasped together in prayer with her head bowed slightly. “Amen,” the woman said after a moment's pause.

Mary murmured it as well, though it was surprising to her to hear such a prayer be openly said. She had prayed each night, beseeching God to protect Abe, but she realized with a little guilt that none of her prayers had ever included anyone else except for her family. Even with prayers though, she still worried for Abe, and would do so until he returned safe and sound.

* * *

_New York City, the next night..._

 

Abe managed to keep the nervousness from showing on his face as he watched Arnold help his wife up into the carriage before he himself got into the carriage. As the footman slapped the reins to get the horse going, he let go of the breath he didn't realize he had been holding. Everything now would be up to Ben and his people to take care of, and ensure that Arnold was abducted while en-route in the carriage ride that Arnold's wife had arranged.

He had swapped sentry duties with one of the other enlisted men in the garrison, ensuring that he was observed at all times during the abduction of Arnold. He felt that not only it gave him plausible deniability that he could say, if questioned, that he had seen Arnold get into the carriage with his wife, but also that he was not alone on latrine duties or something else that no one else could visually confirm.

Still, with at least one hour passed since Arnold had departed, standing as a sentry in front of the Arnold's residence was boring in itself. Abe did everything he could to alleviate the aches that were running up and down his legs and feet. The sentry next to him was also making subtle movements to alleviate his own discomfort, but all-in-all, it was a quiet night thus far--

“Ha, ha! Gotcha!”

That was all the warning he received before the most foul of a smell wafted up from the rotten egg that had been lobbed at him and the other sentry. Most of it splashed on his stockings and shoes, missing the other sentry, as he immediately exclaimed, “Hey!”

The urchin ran off, laughing. More than a little annoyed, he heard the other sentry say, “Go! Teach that gutter rat some manners! I'll cover for you!”

As Abe ran after the rascal, as incensed as he was about having such a foul thing being thrown at him, he knew that it could have been worse. He himself had done worse things to the British sentries, and in one of those incidents, his brother had paid for it with his life. Still... if he was able to catch the urchin, he would give that young rascal a stern talking to. Had that rotten egg hit the other sentry or God-forbid, thrown at General Arnold or any other British soldier – that urchin... Abe didn't want to think about what would've befallen him. However, he still had to catch the scallywag first.

Weaving through alleyways, and splashing through puddles, the urchin always seemed one step ahead of him, until he turned a corner and ran right into a rather solid thing. “Oof!” he couldn't help but say as he stumbled back, having painfully crashed into something hard yet soft and outstretched.

Two hands immediately grabbed either side of his arms, as he was yanked back forward to keep from falling back. “It's me!” a voice hissed at him. “Calm down, Woodhull, it's me! It's Townsend!”

Abe blinked as the initial panic and pain that had washed over him faded. He blinked, and in the cloudy moonlight, he saw that it was indeed, scruffy and unkempt-looking Townsend. Somehow, the man had acquired an oversized floppy hat, but the threadbare clothes were still the same. “Sorry,” he said, readjusting his grip on his rifle as Townsend released his hold on him and stepped back.

“I see that you got the message then,” Townsend stated, “but what is that most foul of a smell?”

“Message?” Abe questioned, frowning before realizing that the Quaker must have sent the urchin to summon him for something. He knew that Townsend knew that there could be no interruptions or last minute meetings tonight – not with what they were about to carry out in the abduction of Arnold. “Your urchin...” he sighed, most annoyed at what Townsend had done. “He decided to throw a rotten egg on me.”

“Oh. Well, think of it as an extension to how most of the downtrodden feel about the British presence in the city, not as an insult to yourself,” the man dryly stated, not even bothering to apologize.

“So what do you want, Townsend? I thought we agreed not to meet tonight of all nights,” he impatiently asked. “Aren't you supposed to be helping whoever 721 sent down to get Arnold out?”

“That is the rub of it, Woodhull,” Townsend said, shaking his head slightly. “I went down to the docks to meet up with whomever 721 had sent, but there was no one there – at least not that I checked about fifteen minutes ago. Arnold's carriage didn't even travel anywhere near the docks in that time frame. Instead, he and Mrs. Arnold made a trip to Governor Tryon's residence. They're on their way back, taking an inner route that my people cannot ambush.”

“What?!” he said, nearly forgetting to keep his voice at a whisper.

“I don't know what is happening, but there's no abduction from the carriage, Woodhull. I'm going back to the docks to see if 721 has sent people and let them know. You best get back to your post and find out what's going on.”

“All right,” he said, nodding. “I'll let you know as soon as I can get away. Tell 721's person that we need to re-plan.”

“We can try to abduct him from the house,” Townsend offered. “I can try to have my boys set a distraction as close as possible after you and that other sentry are back at the barracks?”

“I'll let you know. Don't risk the boys. We don't know if Arnold's wife can keep the secret if it happens at the house.”

Seeing Townsend finally nod in acquiescence to his request to not abduct Arnold at his residence, Abe gave him one final nod before hurrying away.

He got back to his post at the nick of time, just as both he and the other sentry heard the clip-clop of hooves and the tell-tale sign of a carriage being borne down the street. Abe breathed out as evenly as possible, trying to keep his pounding heart from leaping out of his chest as worry, concern, and frustration bled through him. Never mind that somehow, Ben's man whom Townsend was supposed to have met up with near the docks to help with the abduction was not here yet. What was Arnold doing at Tryon's residence?

“You didn't have to be so rude to our hosts, Benedict,” he heard Arnold's wife admonish as the carriage halted and the footman got off to open the door and help the Arnolds out. “What is it that necessitated us to return so quickly?”

“Underhill and Graves, you're dismissed. Report back to the barracks for orders,” Arnold said, instead of answering his wife.

“Yes, sir,” both he and the other sentry stated. Abe dared not catch the eye of Arnold's wife at all, and instead, quickly marched back with his fellow soldier to the barracks, wondering just what the hell was going on.

~~~

“I don't see anyone around,” Ben whispered as he and his counterpart set the oars perpendicular and into the water to halt their advance. As they bumped gently against the docks, Ben reached out with a hand to steady the boat while Benji pulled out his binoculars and peered through it.

“There's a few ships down the line – looks like there's some activity going on, on them.”

“Can you tell what it is?” he asked.

“Not sure. Could be just a nighttime drill or something--”

“Someone's approaching,” he hissed, cutting Benji off, just as he saw some movement on the shoreline closest to where they were.

His counterpart immediately put the binoculars down and away, just as they heard the approaching person say, “I haven't seen oyster foragers come in this late since seventy-three. Hope you boys had a very good haul.”

“Well, if its as excellent as the summer of seventy-three, then we should fetch a good price on the market, yeah?” he answered, recognizing the embedded code words within the man who looked like a beggar with a floppy hat. He would have thought it would be Abe to come and meet them at the docks for the ambush and extraction of both him and Arnold. There was no other person with this beggar who knew the embedded code words behind him though.

“Robert Townsend, at your service,” the beggar stated, tipping his at up so that the moonlight could illuminate his face ever so slightly.

“Ah,” Ben said, nodding as his counterpart steadied the boat to allow him to get out of it and onto the docks. Townsend, with his unkempt look, looked nothing like the future Robb Townsend who had been working for Director Andre in Boston. Accepting the proffered helping hand from Townsend, he stepped up and out of the boat before turning around to help his counterpart out as well.

As soon as both of them were on the docks, he said, “John Bolton.” Gesturing to his counterpart, he continued to say, “This is my brother, Samuel.”

As much as he wanted to introduce his true name to Townsend, he refrained from doing so. They were in enemy territory and should any or one of them be caught, their identities would not be wholly compromised – at least not until someone got a good look at just who they were under torch light. It was also more for Townsend's own protection that he did not know that he, Ben, was standing in front of him.

“I need you to get this to Washington with all haste,” Townsend said, withdrawing a small, thickly folded paper. “It has the numbers he's requested for New York and Long Island.”

“We will,” he answered, accepting the vital piece of information and pocketing it within his clothes. “But first, you know why we're here. Where do you propose is the best ambush point?”

“That's the problem,” the man stated, shaking his head slightly. “You're too late – Arnold was out for his carriage ride, but he never made it to the docks.”

Ben resisted the urge to let loose his frustration in the form of a curse, and instead said, “What about Abraham Woodhull? We were supposed to extract both him and the two of them back. Where is Woodhull?”

“He was on sentry duty at the Arnold's residence,” Townsend explained. “Last I heard from one of my boys, Arnold sent him and the other sentry back to the barracks – to receive some orders or something.”

“Wait, so there are no sentries guarding the Arnold residence at the moment?” Benji jumped in, though there was a gleam in his eyes that Ben caught on to what he was implying.

“No,” Townsend answered, shaking his head slightly. “Woodhull stated that it would be detrimental to abduct Arnold at his residence. He doesn't trust any of the household to keep a secret if questioned under duress.”

“Wait...” Ben began, realizing just who exactly may have arranged the carriage ride that was supposed to have taken Arnold close to the docks.” The urge to groan in frustration was a little too great and he gave into it – but only a little. “Abe...” the grumbled mostly to himself. “You weren't supposed to...”

“It's a risk we have to take,” Benji spoke up in the silence. “We're going to have to – its now or never. I don't think we're going to get a third chance to do this. If those aren't drills that they're running on the ships, I think they mean to ship out tonight.”

“But where?” Townsend asked before Ben could.

“Let's get Arnold then,” Ben said, nodding in agreement.

Peggy Shippen Arnold's ability to keep the fact that she herself most likely tried to arrange for the abduction carriage ride overruled the fact that his counterpart was correct. They had already lost their first chance at Lyme, and this second chance was the only one they had left. There were so many risks involved, but if they could capture Arnold, they could potentially prevent Arnold's forces from reinforcing any British lines.

“Townsend, can you get a cart of hay ready?” he asked.

“Yeah, I'll see if one of my boys can procure it from the nearest stable. I'll also have a couple of them run a distraction south of here.”

“Good,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Lead the way then.”

Quickly, but carefully, with two stops at the corners of alleyways to allow Townsend to pass on his message to his network of thieves and beggars in the city, the three of them made their way to the Arnold residence. As stated and seen, there were no sentries standing guard at the entrance to the residence, and a perimeter check around the area yielded only patrol groups whose routes were quite predictable to Townsend.

Slipping into the shadows cast by the trees that surrounded the residence, Ben and the others quietly climbed over the fence that lined the perimeter of the residence. Crouching and keeping as low as possible, the three of them approached the back of the residence. There was movement inside of the house, but with the curtains drawn, he could not tell who it was.

“Oy!” a voice shouted, startling the three of them before Ben realized that it was coming from the other side of the house – from somewhere near or on the main road. “Whatcha doing there? Where'd you taking that cart?!”

“Kent... you...” he heard Townsend mutter in frustration and annoyance.

“Thieves! That's the King's property!”

“Run!” he heard a voice, most likely Kent or whomever else was with the man who had been trying to commandeer a hay cart.

“Shit,” he heard his counterpart softly curse, as they all knew that the abduction could not happen now, not with the commotion that was starting to rise.

It didn't take the patrolmen to change their routes as shouts echoed throughout the alleyways all around this area, calling for reinforcements to stop the thieves who had tried to take the hay cart. By the time Ben and the others dashed back over the fence, a group of four patrolmen had just emerged from another alleyway at the back road of the Arnold residence. “What the...?” he thought he heard one of the British patrolmen begin as he and the others skidded to a halt, with their escape route cut off.

“Oh dear,” was all Townsend said before turning to his left, and immediately dashed for a stack of crates along side an alleyway.

Unexpectedly, Ben saw the man leap up onto the first crate before scrambling up the next one, trying to gain distance not from the patrolmen on the ground, but up. It was the only way they could escape, as the clatter of boots on the ground, coupled with the jangling of rifles and their accouterments rang throughout the area. That, and the rather obnoxious hunting horn that _someone_ had blown to alert other patrolmen to the chase on the ground, really incensed him.

Ben followed his counterpart up, knowing that escaping to the rooftops was the only way they would have a hairbreadth chance of making it out of New York City alive. Just as he grabbed the edge of the second to last crate that would finally allow him to get to the rooftop of this building, the sound of _ptwot_ sang through the air. Not a moment later, something painful lanced into his shoulder. His grip on the edge of the crate slipped away as he felt himself falling...

~~~

_At the same time..._

 

“Attention!”

Abe snapped to, with the rest of the unit doing the same as silence fell upon them. The booted footsteps of Arnold walked into the barracks, and with an expression that seemed to be suffused with pride, he heard the man state, “Glory, gentlemen, is ours. Glory, war, and everything that you have been training for since the formation of this American Legion. We have been given emergency orders to sail for Virginia to aid General Cornwallis. We leave tonight.”

Abe eyes widened as a murmur broke out among those in the barracks. Everyone, him included, had thought that the unit was most likely a sham unit – that the British were only putting on airs to show the populace that they were doing something about the unnatural appearance of soldiers from the future. No one really thought that they were really going to go into battle. Hell, Arnold hadn't even asked him about how to fight against such things, since he had declared his knowledge and survival at Lyme.

“The enemy is not the Devil. These unnatural things can be defeated men--” Arnold began, but curiously, muffled shouts from the outside and the faint sounds of the discharging of flintlocks interrupted his rallying speech. “What in the name of God is that racket?” Arnold irritatingly asked.

“Just a moment, sir,” the barrack commander said, dashing out of the room. A few moments later, the man came back and said, “Nothing sir, just patrolmen trying to chase down some thieves who tried to steal supplies from the stable near the docks.”

Internally, Abe frowned – the stable near the docks was one of the alternative places that he and Townsend had come up with as a temporary place to hide the unconscious Arnold, in the event that there were complications near the docks. It was the least guarded place, since many of the dockworkers also used it. Could Ben's man had arrived now? Of all times?

It was too late – he couldn't slip away now, especially not with so many eyes that would be watching them, making sure that no one shirked their duties and tried to desert. He couldn't get out, he couldn't go home, and he knew that somehow, wherever they landed in Virginia, he needed to find a way to get back to friendly lines – before he would be forced to shoot his own allies.

~~~

“Got you!”

Robert winced as an agonizing sound issued from the man who had identified himself as 'John Bolton', as he was caught by his 'brother' Samuel. He had an inkling as to who exactly the two were, for even with the weak moonlight shining, there was the unmistakable familiarity in the two's facial structure to that of one Samantha Tallmadge. However, he didn't call either of them out on their deception or alias, knowing and understanding that it was better that they'd not be wholly identified.

He knew that within the alliance of thieves, beggars, and urchins, he had allowed any of them to listen into what was being said. Most of them though, were respectful enough to not eavesdrop. Still, that did not preclude people picking up on names and the like, and thus, he kept his mouth shut. Now was not the time to think of such things as the sounds of more musket balls were fired at them.

He helped 'Samuel' haul Tallmadge up. There was pain etched in the Continental officer's eyes as he clutched his shoulder, but there was also determination to not die – to live and get out of the city. Setting off, Townsend ran as quickly as he could, while keeping his balance. Rooftop running was something he had scoffed at before he had been turned out onto the streets – now, it was a lifeline that was learned from the urchins that ran around in the city.

There was the occasional pause as they continued to run towards the northern sections of the city, where there were still farm fields and houses spaced far and few. That would be the way out for Tallmadge and his 'brother', but also the best area for Townsend to hide for a while until the fervor died down. The clattering noise of the patrolmen scrambling to try to catch a whole host of thieves and urchins (it seemed that the entire nest of them had turned out just for this somewhat confusingly entertaining chase), echoed up to the rooftops, but it was something else that caught his attention.

“Look!” he said, pausing for a moment, pointing towards the streets near the docks. “They're loading the ships.”

“Shit, we can't get Woodhull out of there,” he heard Tallmadge's 'brother' curse.

“We'll find a way to,” Tallmadge answered, his voice hoarse with pain, but still standing as upright as possible. “We won't leave him with those wolves.”

Seeing that they were in no immediate danger, not with the noise going down below, and where they were standing on the rooftop of a building, Robert tore a strip of cloth from his shirt and handed it to Tallmadge's 'brother'. “Here,” he said.

“This is going to hurt,” he heard him say to Tallmadge, who had briefly removed his hand from bracing against the wound.

Tallmadge didn't even get to acknowledge the warning before the strip was quickly and tightly wrapped around the wound. The only sign or sound of Tallmadge in pain was a groan, but it was not as loud as the initial agonizing sound when Tallmadge's 'brother' had caught him to prevent him from falling.

“We can't get in there, not with them hunting us like foxes,” Robert stated after a moment where it looked as if Tallmadge would've passed out from the pain.

“He's right,” the 'brother' agreed. “We have to get the report back to Washington. Woodhull can take care of himself. We'll go extract him after we figure out where Arnold's forces are headed to.”

There was a moment of silence, and Robert could see the silent argument warring within Tallmadge's eyes. For a moment, he thought that the man would be more reckless than Samantha Tallmadge, but it seemed that logic and the realization of the futility of such actions finally won out. “Let's go,” Tallmadge stated at last.

* * *

_New Windsor Camp_

 

While it was not routine for him to visit the surgeon's tents, he tried to do so at least once a week. It was just to see how the injured or sick were doing, along with the hope that his presence there would give courage to the men to pull through whatever ailed them. Tonight was no different, though Washington normally visited during the day, when he knew that some of the more conscious men could see him. It was only because of the analysis that his counterpart had sent back earlier in the day that took up his time, that he had not had time to visit the surgeon or those injured.

Lafayette's missive to Hamilton had been passed onto him, indicating that the surgeon who was or had been attending to Laurens was doing everything he could to save the young man. Washington could ask for no more or no less, though he knew that it had been days since the missive had been written. No further news had come about with regards to Lieutenant Colonel Laurens, and he could only hope and pray that his former aide-de-camp was alive and recovering.

Still, as he stood next to one of the injured men who had had his fever broken and now was sleeping easier, the scene before him looked more familiar than it had in the past few years. It was all Continental soldiers in this particular tent, recovering from their injuries by musket balls, sabre or bayonet cuts, or illnesses. He still had vivid memories of the injuries sustained by the combined troops – far more gruesome, far more foreign that he could barely comprehend.

However despairingly normal the tent looked, there was a single oddity within the tent that he had not expected to be here. He knew that it was only because of his orders to Julian Alton-Tallmadge to guard Mary Floyd, that the man was here, standing unobtrusively in a corner. The young woman herself was currently helping one of the surgeon's mates change the bandages on a wounded soldier. He had drafted a letter earlier and sent it down by courier to General Greene's camp, informing General Floyd that his daughter was safe. Another was also on its way to her family in Connecticut, though he knew that once the Army was to march to battle, he would send her away.

Her capacity as a spy and informant for her father and General Greene was not lost on him, nor did he entertain the idea of integrating her within the various spy rings. She was unmarried, certainly should not have gone with her father to battle, and in danger if he did not ensure her survival so that the future-Tallmadge family would also survive. This was the first time he was faced with protecting two key people – one of them who had a penchant for getting into trouble or having trouble follow him around.

“Medic! Medic!”

The shout, so familiar yet so foreign, that Washington knew that only one person in the entire camp would shout such a thing. He looked over towards the entrance, just in time to see the disheveled appearance of the former US Army officer, half-dragging in Major Tallmadge. His Head of Intelligence was not unconscious, but not responsive either – and it looked as if he had been shot, judging from how soaked through a part of his civilian clothing looked. He pushed the questioning thought of what had happened that necessitated Tallmadge to even change into civilian clothing and leave camp, away. Though it was not Washington's intention to, he had already taking a few steps forward from where he had been standing, before seeing Alton-Tallmadge close the distance to the two men.

Washington stopped where he was, for he knew that his presence within the surgeon's operating circle was not needed – especially with the response by the surgeon himself, Alton-Tallmadge helping his nephew drag Major Tallmadge onto the surgeon's table, and Miss Floyd immediately bringing a bowl of water and bandages. As much as he wanted to demand what had happened, something kept him from asking it as he watched the frenzy of the surgeon attempting to save the life of his most trusted officer.

Instead, all he could do was stand back, watch, and pray just as he prayed for Laurens, that Tallmadge would pull through. And God help the British whom most likely had shot him – this damnable war already had too many dead – with more that he knew would join those already in Heaven. It did not need another good man to be led to the grave, not tonight.

 

~*~*~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 20 Jan 2018 - I sincerely apologize to all you readers of this fic for not updating for a while. Real-life was hounding me for the past few months, and thus could not find time to write anything until recently. Sporadic updates until the end (Chapter 40 will be the last chapter) will be posted as real-life demands my attention.
> 
> Fun historical note: Yes, Mary Floyd is the real-life historical wife of Benjamin Tallmadge. According to my source (Shadow Chaser), the two corresponded somewhat regularly during the war, and got married almost immediately after the war ended and Ben was discharged from the service. I really disliked the one-sentence introduction that Tallmadge himself gave about her during that dinner scene with the Culper Ring & Washington. To me, it felt like she was easily dismissed - after all that Ben had been though, the abrupt intro of Mary Floyd seemed so odd. So yay, she's an actual, sort-of fleshed out (not to historical standards) character in this story!
> 
> As for Abe shipping out to Virginia (despite history and myself vehemently saying no) - I generally left it as-is, though in all honesty, NYC was heavily guarded. Ben and the other rower (Bedders?) really shouldn't have gotten as close as they got to the docks and the ships. British patrolmen would have already caught them, hence the inclusion of the chase scene.
> 
> Three more chapters to go!


	38. Not Throwing Away My Shot

**Chapter 38: Not Throwing Away My Shot**

 

“ _They're loading the ships.”_

“ _We won't leave him with those wolves.”_

“ _Medic!”_

“ _The bullet is lodged within him.”_

“ _Brace!”_

“ _...cloth is still somewhere in there...”_

Ben awoke with a start, only to find himself catching his breath as the expected pain he had anticipated feeling with someone digging into his shoulder, into the wound, not even manifesting. As he slowly breathed out, he blinked and found himself staring up at a canvas tented ceiling. The wind was gently blowing the trees enough that the sunlight shining and casting their shadows onto the canvas moved them. A noise by his side caused him to slowly turn his head to the left, as he felt a distinct pull of his tender skin, bandages, and stitches in the area where he had been shot.

“Thank the Lord you have woken up. How are you feeling, Major Tallmadge?”

Not only was the question unexpected, but the person behind the question was definitely surprising. He blinked for a few moments, puzzled as to why lovely-looking Mary Floyd was here, much less helping the surgeon and his mates, judging from some of the blood splatters upon the apron she wore over her dress.

“Erm,” he began, trying to dash the multitude of synonymous thoughts associated with 'lovely' – all of it directed at Mary Floyd, even though he knew in his heart that his relationship with Natalie Sackett was no more. He also swallowed to try to wet his parched throat before clearing it a little as he mastered his thoughts for the moment. “Strangely... I'm not feeling as much pain as I thought I should be.”

As strange as it was, there was no denying the truth. Where he had been shot was a mirror of the wound he had received from Robert Rogers all those years ago. It was an incredibly odd sensation to not feel excruciating pain as he had when he had finally returned to General Scott's camp. “What happened, Miss Floyd? All I remember is making it to the boat. How did I... where am I?”

“Please, Major, call me Mary. You saved my life, and I owe you a debt of gratitude. Do you feel strong enough to sit up and sip some water?” she asked instead of answering his question.

He silently nodded, and tried to push himself up a little from the cot he was lying on. His observations of the area, yielded an answer to one of his questions – he was most likely back at the New Windsor Camp, since he recognized the surgeon at a corner of the enormous tent. Before he could stop her though, Mary reached over and helped him sit up. Grateful for the assistance, he murmured his thanks to her as he accepted the small mug of coffee. While it was not hot, it was not too cool enough that it sat in his stomach like a rock.

As soon as he finished, she took the mug from him and set it down on the small table by the bedside. “You are safe in New Windsor, sir. I know not what that man was holding, or what he had done to you, but as God as my witness, I have never seen such a miraculous thing happen,” she began, clasping her hands together.

“Your wound... as soon as Dr. Peters removed the musket ball and stated that he could not find the cloth that was carried into the wound with the ball, Mr. Alton-Tallmadge immediately left. When he returned, his hands bore the strangest of things. It was something that could shine such a bright light, but not burn like a candle, and cast its glow as if it were the day sun. Dr. Peters found the cloth stuck within, and having gotten rid of it, the device in Mr. Alton-Tallmadge's hand began glowing a strange color. Out from the end where the bright sun light was shining was also this sliver of red – as if it were a red needle. Your wound – it burned, but yet it was also healing at the same time wherever this red needle was being placed. The stitching on your shoulder was made by Dr. Peters to ensure that the surface of your wound closed properly.”

Ben could not help but blink in utter surprise and bafflement. It was not because of some strange device that the former commander of the Third Section had that healed him, but it was the fact that Alton-Tallmadge had actually taken some sort of action that did not seem to radiate disdain or contempt. There was also the remarkable fact that Mary Floyd had described the entire scene without flinching or invoking any sort of epitaph towards the Lord. She looked unmistakably calm as well, as his eyes briefly searched her own.

“I apologize that you had to witness that, Miss Fl-- Mary,” he corrected himself. “By now, you must have heard all of the rumors up and down the Continental Army, and especially within this camp with regards to the strangeness that has gripped us. It was not my intention--”

“Forgive me for interrupting you, Major, but there is no need to apologize,” Mary said, looking slightly apologetic. “As removed as I and many others are from the rumored strangeness, I was given the opportunity to see how much of a benefit the consequences were. Before he undertook that second York River crossing, Colonel Laurens had shown me what he called 'binoculars' – a telescope that allowed sights so far off the horizon to appear so close and clear. I am fascinated by such a thing, and can only thank the Lord that He has seen fit to grace Mr. Alton-Tallmadge with the timely manner and a device that has saved your life.”

“Ah,” he said, but did not dare say anything else with regards to the future or the people from it.

“If you would forgive me for this personal question, Major,” she began, looking a little hesitant. “But of what relation is Mr. Alton-Tallmadge to you? I only ask because it seems that he has been assigned as a bodyguard of sorts to me, as he does not seem to be far away wherever I am working.”

Ben looked away for a moment, his eyes taking in the tent full of the injured, dying, and recovering patients before returning his attention to Mary. “He is... of a distant relation,” he said. While not entirely true, it was from a certain point of view. “He knew my father, though he has never stated to me of what exactly his familial relationship was to my father. I know not why he has been assigned to guard you, but if he is making you uncomfortable, I will endeavor to convince General Washington to relieve him of that duty.”

While he was not exactly certain that Washington had been the one to assign Alton-Tallmadge as Mary Floyd's bodyguard, his commander would be the one to talk to, to convince Alton-Tallmadge to stop. The former commander of the Third Section seemed to flaunt authority in a way that was not visible to the public, but neither did it grate on Ben that he could not order the man to do anything to help the Ring. He just left the man to his own devices, so long as no trouble was being caused.

“Ah,” she said, nodding. “While I appreciate General Washington assigning him as a bodyguard. I had assumed him to be the escort who will ensure that I make it to my family in Wethersfield unharmed, and thus appreciated getting to know him better. He is quite the reticent fellow though.”

“Wethersfield?” he questioned. “Your family is from Wethersfield?” He knew most of the families that lived in Wethersfield, having taught many of their children during his three years as a schoolmaster there. However, he had never heard of the Floyd family, even though he remembered General Washington specifically stating that General Floyd was from Connecticut.

“You know of that town?” she asked, a smile gracing her face at his mention of it.

“I was the schoolmaster there for three years before joining up,” he said, as he couldn't help but feel a slight nostalgia for the less hectic days, along with the pang of sorrow as the memory of Nathan Hale surface for a moment.

“I remember Colonel Webb mentioning something about Wethersfield's former schoolmaster being in charge of a dragoon unit when my father was discussing the progress of the war at a soiree about two years ago,” she said, her smile becoming a little wider. “I had not realized that that brave and daring commander he mentioned was you. The stories Colonel Webb told of the 2nd Light's charge to take Setauket and the other towns on Long Island... how my father wished that he had had the armaments and men to join with you and take Mastic as well.”

“Your family,” he began, realizing that her and her family were not originally from Wethersfield with that statement. He didn't dare correct her on what Webb had stated about the 2nd Light. She did not need to know about his counterpart's unit, or their weapons that was the tip of the proverbial cascaded mess. “Your hometown is Mastic?”

“Yes,” she answered, nodding. “We fled when the British took it.”

“Setauket was my hometown,” he said, blinking back the tears as he looked away from her, with the memories of his father and his last moments alive surfacing for a moment. “Things got bad enough that they almost hung several loyal Patriots for voicing their displeasure at the fact that they took headstones of our ancestors and used it as fortification. That's why we attacked.” He paused for a moment, letting that memory wash away as he looked back up at her, saying, “I'm glad you and your family escaped.”

“That was a very commendable thing to do,” she said. “And I thank you for freeing Mastic during that campaign. You gave us and many others hope that one day, we would be able to return.”

“I apologize that we could not hold Mastic or the other towns,” he answered.

“We all heard about what happened at Monmouth, sir,” she said, shaking her head slightly. “It is understandable. Now though, I understand that an attack on New York City itself is poised to happen soon, I hope that perhaps the towns along Long Island will once again be free from the yoke of the British forces.”

“New York!” he said, realizing that the numbers that he and Benji had collected from Townsend and the others were not given to Washington yet. Looking around his bed, he noticed that his uniform jacket, along with his boots, stockings, cravat, vest, and sabre were at the foot of his bed. The clothes that he had been wearing during the New York infiltration mission were gone. It didn't matter if he still felt somewhat weak – he needed to report on the fact that Arnold had escaped... and inform Mary Woodhull of her husband's shipment to wherever the ships were going.

“Major, please,” Mary pleaded as he felt her gentle hand upon his arm, trying to calm him and prevent him from getting up and out of the cot. “Dr. Peters advises you to rest and recover.”

“I can't,” he said, shaking his head. “Washington... he needs to be informed about General Arnold, about New York—”

He saw her sigh, shake her head and step away – only to reach down and pick up a folded missive that had been sealed in wax. Handing it to him, she stepped back and said, “I was told by your brother to give this to you if, and I quote him, 'he becomes ornery and won't rest as the surgeon recommends.'” She then reached up and partially drew the linen curtains that surrounded his cot area slightly closed, though her lips had thinned slightly in anger and disappointment. “Please Major, please do not injure yourself any further. If your brother's words do not convince you otherwise, then I shall inform Dr. Peters of your departure.”

“Thank you,” he said, as a most unusual feeling of a slight ache bloomed in his chest as he realized that he had not wanted to disappoint her or see such an expression upon her face. Sighing to himself, he opened the missive, which was encoded using the codebook and began to read:

[ _I would write this in the tone of your brother, Samuel, but I don't know him, and neither do I feel like causing you grief. The point is, I've already informed General Washington about the numbers, Arnold, and his legion's departure. We found out that Arnold and his legion are in Virginia, and they're causing some serious chaos. I'm already bringing the numbers to my General Washington. Stay in bed and recover as quick as you can. I think we're going into battle soon somewhere, and we're going to need every able soldier. --Benji_ ]

As much as he wanted to crumple up the missive in anger, especially with the tone that his counterpart had written into it, he didn't. Time had tempered his actions, and with that short letter, he knew more about what was going on, than if he had stormed to Washington's tent. However, that did not mean that he needed to obey his counterpart. He was recovering, but he still had duties to perform – one of them informing Mary Woodhull of her husband's whereabouts. No where in the letter did it say that she had been told about Abe, and Ben felt that it was his responsibility to break that news to her. After all, it was he who had authorized Abe to undertake such a dangerous mission.

Flinging the covers off of his bed, he reached over, wincing slightly in pain as his still-healing wound pulled, and pulled the curtains closed. Getting dressed with a little degree of difficulty, especially when he was not trying to pull the stitching or wound open again, he finally felt proper again as soon as he secured his sabre to his side. Opening the curtains, he tucked the missive into a jacket pocket and caught the shaking of Dr. Peters', the surgeon, head. He nodded in acknowledgment, and the surgeon did not indicate anything else.

Passing by Mary, he couldn't help but notice that she had stiffened slightly as he approached, seemingly digging her hands and arms further into the cloths she was washing clean of blood. “Thank you, Mary,” he murmured as he passed her by.

She didn't answer, and he didn't expect her to. However, as he approached the entrance to the surgeon's tent, a sudden thought occurred to him. Turning back, he approached Mary again and stopped just out of arm's reach of her. “Miss Floyd... Mary,” he began. “I need to give Mrs. Woodhull news of her husband. As I am unsure how she will react, is there anything that you know of that may help calm her down?”

This was the first time he had to give notice to a member of a soldier's family in person. All of the other times, when his men had died, he had written the missives himself, stating their courage and bravery, and sent it off with a courier. He felt keenly for their deaths, and for their bereaved, but also a detachment from it. While Abe was not a soldier under his command, he knew how worried Abe's wife had been and still was. He hoped that perhaps the young woman before him had had some knowledge or acquired some knowledge as to how to ensure that the bereaved who received the notice of death would not become too hysterical.

Abe was not dead, at least Ben hoped he wasn't, given the rather grim one-line assessment that his counterpart had stated about what was happening in Virginia. Still, he owed it to Abe, to his friend to make sure that Mary and Thomas Woodhull were kept as safe as possible, and that included informing Abe's wife of Abe's whereabouts. Without any other future-person to be an 'alert button' as several of the future-agents had put it, he had no way of knowing whether or not Abe was alive at this juncture.

“Allow me to accompany you, Major,” Mary stated, removing her hands from her rather anger-induced scrubbing of cloths, and letting them hang by her side. “Mary and I have become acquainted with each other, and she will need a friend upon hearing the news.”

Ben considered it for a moment. While he did not want to involve anyone else not a part of the Culper-Culpeper Spy Ring, he did not know just how much Abe's wife may have told Mary. His inattention to Caleb's ailment had left him cognizant that perhaps Abe's wife was suffering from the lack of social interaction with others. Her acquaintance with Mary Floyd may have broken the dam of silence. However, he knew that she knew just how precarious her position was at the camp. Yet he also knew that he did not have the strength to deal with a hysterical woman – especially with his blatant disregard for the surgeon's orders.

“You may,” he said at last.

Stepping away and waiting by the entrance, he saw her dry her hands on the apron before removing it and going over towards where the surgeon was. She murmured some words to the surgeon and he saw him nod before catching his glance over towards him. Shortly thereafter, she joined him, and together the two of them made their way through the camp and to where Mary and Thomas Woodhull had made camp. At the corner of the camp was once again, Alton-Tallmadge, chopping wood, and content to keep to himself.

At their approach, Ben saw Abe's wife rise up, her initial curiosity turning into a concerned frown as she took a couple of steps away from her son, who was busy playing with his small soldier figurine. “Arnold is in Virginia,” he began without preamble, just as Mary stepped to the side, ready to intervene if necessary.

“Virginia!” she exclaimed, distraught horror gracing her face. “B-but I thought you planned his capture in New York?”

Ignoring the slightly confused look that appeared on Mary's face, Ben focused his attention on Abe's wife, saying, “Yes, and he and the American Legion shipped down and out in the middle of the night – the same night we were set to grab him.”

“And now, Abraham Woodhull has gone with him,” an unexpected voice spoke up, as Ben glanced over to see that Alton-Tallmadge had joined them, though he was standing not quite within the circle. Ben ignored him for the moment, as his offhand comment seemed to make Mary Woodhull more agitated.

“Well then,” Abe's wife began, looking as if she were on the verge of tears, “you need... you need to get him! You need to get him right away—you need to get him out--”

Before she could say anymore, Mary immediately embraced her, whispering a few soothing words to try to calm her down. Ben was grateful that he had agreed to let her accompany him, even though it was now quite clear that despite the loneliness that Abe's wife must have felt for these past few months, she had not confided much, if at all anything, to Mary Floyd. The fact that Mary now knew or had an inkling of what exactly was going on was not the most ideal of situations, but there was no helping it. He did not have the strength to calm Abe's wife down, and neither was he going to ask or order Alton-Tallmadge to intervene.

“All right, all right,” he said, taking a step forward and extended his not-shot arm out towards Abe's wife. Even with little strength, he owed it to Mrs. Woodhull to get Abe home – to bring him back to safety. Abe was his friend, and he was not going to let him face the British behind enemy lines alone. “I plan to leave tonight--”

“Tonight?” Mary interrupted, looking very concerned as she continued to hold Abe's wife, trying to comfort and calm her. “Major, you're just recovered--”

“You can't go to Virginia,” Alton-Tallmadge stated, drawing their attention to him.

Annoyed at the interruption and lack of a better solution that seemed not to spill forth from the intrusion that Alton-Tallmadge had brought upon, Ben crossed his arms and turned slightly to face him. He managed to keep the wince of pain off his his face as he felt his healing wound pull in protest at the action. “No?” he questioned, settling his anger and eyes upon the former commander of the Third Section. “And why not?”

“You are Washington's Head of Intelligence. If you leave against orders, you'll be branded a traitor – a deserter,” Alton-Tallmadge stated.

That was the least helpful, and certainly most obvious of things that need not be stated. Yet there was nothing else forthcoming from the man, which irritated Ben. “No one else knows his true identity,” he answered. “No one else knows his true allegiance,” he answered, unfolding his arms. “I'm the only one who can vouch for him. What other choice does he have?”

“Lieutenant Caleb Brewster,” the man stated as if it were the most logical choice.

At the mention of the whaler's name, Ben resisted the urge to groan out loud and settled for sighing. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “He nearly botched the mission. He was so drunk the night we set out to take Arnold. Simcoe and the Director have gotten into his head.”

“So long as you treat him as a broken man, he will be broken, Major,” Alton-Tallmadge stated. “Give him your trust as a friend, and he will earn it back.”

Ben frowned – it was irrepariable, the friendship, the formerly deep bond between him and Caleb. Something had broken between them that day, and try as he might, he could not and would not forgive Caleb for doing something like that. Lives were at stake, and the one time he depended on Caleb to have his back, the whaler had failed him. His mind was set – he would not leave Abe to the wolves.

“You're right. I am still Head of Intelligence,” he said after a few moments of silence. “I'll have to resign my post.”

Without another word to any of them, he turned and left. He had a mission to complete, and injury or no, he was not going to let Abe die. If he could save one friend in this war from hanging or worse, it would have to be Abraham Woodhull, his most trusted and loyal spy. He had already lost Nathan; he would not lose Abe.

~~~

The thoughts of her husband in danger, alone and without anyone to help him had almost sent her to despair, but it was Major Tallmadge's words, however blunt they were, to her that gave Mary hope. She knew that she did not deserve such leniency, such generosity, but yet she also knew just how close her husband was to Tallmadge and Brewster. She was also well aware that General Washington could not lose his Head of Intelligence – they had gotten this far and won so many battles thus far because of the collation of intelligence from various sources. She was not naive enough to know that her husband and the Ring he operated in were not the only ones sending information to Washington.

Sniffling as she sought to master her tears and dry her eyes with the back of her hands, she nodded towards Mary Floyd, grateful that she was there. Even though she was sure the young woman had many questions with regards to what had been exchanged, Mary felt that she could trust the young woman – after all, she knew Major Tallmadge to be honorable when it came to his friends' and their family's safety. From Setauket, to New Haven, and now here, she knew that the Major and his associates did everything they could to make sure that those of the Culper Spy Ring were safe.

That was not to say that Abraham took risks – she knew that she could never stop her husband from taking risks. However, with the Major set on resigning, that was something she knew that she had to prevent if she could. She had to find Caleb Brewster and convince him to go save her husband – to prevent the chains of various spies from collapsing from Tallmadge's resignation.

Hearing the footsteps of Mr. Alton-Tallmadge leave, she looked up to see him return to his previous duty – chopping wood for fire. As unhelpful as he had been in that discussion, it had given her insight as to what ailed Brewster, and she hoped that she could reach out to him. “I'll be all right,” she said, returning her attention to the young woman. “Thank you, but may I ask you to keep an eye on Thomas for a while?”

“Mary, what do you intend to do?” she asked.

“Convince my husbands' friends to not be foolish, and to find it in their hearts to forgive and understand, as the Lord has always done.”

“Then go,” the young woman said, nodding in understanding. “I will watch over your son until you return.”

“Thank you,” Mary answered, squeezing their clasped hands for a brief moment before letting go.

Walking as quickly as her dress and the petticoats underneath it would allow her to, she headed into the camp. Walking around the enlisted area, for she was quite certain that after what Tallmadge had stated about Brewster, the Lieutenant would not be making his bed near the officers' tents. Considering the demeanor that she remembered Brewster exuding during his brief stay in New Haven, she was sure he would be somewhere where there was card games and the like. However, the noisier, more raucous area of the camp yielded no sign of Caleb Brewster.

Finally, she broke down and asked a dragoon member of the 4th Light for the possible location of Brewster. She was pointed to a relatively quiet and isolated part of the camp, where there was little activity, due to the majority of this part of the camp being on patrol duty at the moment. It was at a lone campfire that she finally spotted him, sitting hunched over. As she got closer, the sounds of metal slicing through skin and feathers was heard and she saw him roughly stab and try to skin a fully feathered duck.

Quickly closing the distance, for the sight of it was terrible and heartbreaking to see, she reached out and laid a gentle hand upon the one that held the blade. “Careful,” she cautioned, as her actions startled him out of his fugue. “You'll cut yourself.”

He looked up at her, and seeing that he was not going to lash out at her, she cautiously took a seat on the log next to him. “It's not that sharp,” he answered as she let go of his hand while taking the knife away.

Putting the knife to the side, she said, “It's certainly not as sharp as my tongue.” Folding her hands together, she continued to say, “I wanted to apologize for speaking to you the way I had during your time in New Haven, here in the camp, and for the general matter in which I treated you. My comments were made in anger and in fear of my safety.”

There was a sullen and disheartened look in his eyes that seemed not to accept her apology as he muttered, “Yeah, I know.”

“I wanted to also apologize for my lack of gratefulness for what you and Carrie Brewster had done to allow Agent Strong to get us out of New Haven,” she continued, hoping her words were being heard by him.

It seemed that that was the heart of the issue, with whatever else he had suffered at the hands of Simcoe and Director Andre not withstanding, as she saw him briefly close his eyes and shake his head. It seemed he was trying to will away whatever memories surface as she saw his hand tremble. Clasping both of her hands over his right, with his left hand having been brought up to cover his eyes, she remained silent as a sob escaped his lips.

She had heard what happened to Carrie Brewster, how she had taken not one, but two bullets for her ancestor. It was much like what Mari Woodhull had done for Abraham, and she knew that since then, there had been minute time where her husband's eyes seemed so far away whenever he had looked at her. She could only imagine what her husband had gone though, having only seen the body of young Mari herself, much less what Brewster was also going through.

After a few minutes of silently holding his hand, silently praying to the Lord to have mercy on Brewster and the suffering he was going through, she could hear him calm down. Her words, her apologies were not enough – she knew that – but she didn't know what else she could do. She had to ask him of this, hoping and praying that God was merciful enough to grant this prayer. “D-did you know,” she began in the silence that followed. “Did you know that Abraham's been shipped to Virginia?”

Brewster's reaction was not one that she expected – he immediately removed his hand from his eyes and looked up at her. There was a mixture of fear, regret, alarm, and most of all, confusion. Her heart sank – no one had told him. She regretted her words, for it again, laid the burden of what he had done that night that they were set to row down the Hudson to take Arnold. She didn't want to continually blame him – it was all going wrong, but she could not take her words back.

“You have to go get him, Caleb,” she pressed, pleading and hoping that he would not take his previous mission as a failure to act. It was not his fault, and she needed him to see that. She needed him to be strong, to be the dependable man that Tallmadge sent to support Abraham – the man that her husband counted on to have his back.

“I can't,” Brewster began, shaking his head slightly. “I'm not the same man I was before.”

_Yes you are_ , were the words she wanted to say, but was not the ones he would be able to hear. “The man you are,” she began, squeezing his hand again, “is a man who would do anything for his friends – even I know that. All those years you came to his aid--”

“It's not right, Mary,” he protested. “I can't even shoot, can't even throw me ax.”

“What is that he shall ask, then he shall receive,” she murmured, hoping that the Bible's teachings would give him courage.

“I've never been one to read the Scripture,” he said, looking regretful.

“He shall receive,” she repeated, knowing that there were no other words she could now say, and could only continue to pray for the Lord's mercy.

~~~

Washington was not in the house when Ben had arrived with his notebook of information. The commander was out with a patrol unit and would not return until later – much later than what Ben was hoping for. He knew that he could not waste time waiting for Washington – Abe needed help now. Deciding that Hamilton was the better choice anyways to pass on the news to Washington when the time came, he began his discussions with him. It had not escape his notice that a disappointing but understanding look had crossed the aide's expression, when he, Ben, had announced his intent to resign – and the reason behind it.

“... have Mulligan's man, Cato, replacing 725,” he said as he pointed to the page in the code book where they kept the names.

“Are you sure?” Hamilton asked. “You've just recovered from injury.”

“Woodhull needs my help. You'd do the same thing for a friend,” he stated, when a knock interrupted them. “Come in,” he called out.

One of the guards opened the door and entered, saying, “Major Tallmadge, a Lieutenant Brewster for you.”

Ben managed to keep his still cooling anger towards Brewster off of his face as he nodded. However, instead of the guard leaving and allowing Brewster to enter by himself, the guard merely stepped to the side as the whaler entered. As uncommon as it was, Ben held himself still and did not wonder about it.

“Colonel Hamilton,” Brewster began stiffly and formally. “Major Tallmadge. The time for me has come to... resign my commission.”

Ben blinked, unable to keep the brief surprise from appearing on his face before he managed to master it and school his expression back to neutral. He had expected an apology, or even acknowledgment of what Brewster had done that night, but this-- “I,” he began, still taken aback. “I understand...”

That surprise was swiftly being overridden by anger again, as he realized that Brewster was ducking out of punishment, ducking out of all responsibilities that had befallen him since that day. He could not believe it; the gall that the whaler had to do such a thing--

Hamilton broke that dam of red that had fallen over Ben's eyes as his movement forward to clasp and shake Brewster's hand, shook him out of his racing thoughts. “Thank you for your service, Lieutenant Brewster,” Hamilton stated.

“Oh, yes,” Brewster answered, looking slightly flustered. “Thank you.”

Stepping back, Ben kept his eyes on Hamilton, fearing that if he glanced over once again at Brewster, that red haze of anger would over take him again, and he would not be able to stop himself from doing or saying something incredibly rash. “May I inquire as to your future plans?” Hamilton politely asked.

“Uh,” he heard Brewster begin, “I was actually thinking of heading south.” Ben frowned slightly as he continued to hear him say, “See if I can find a friend of mine down there. He's a farmer, and uh, had a bit of trouble bringing in his crop.” At those words, he finally turned his gaze over towards him, and couldn't help but see a smile upon Caleb's expression as he heard him say, “I might go lend a hand.”

All the anger, frustration – everything negative that he had carried against Caleb seemingly melted away the instant his eyes saw that smile. That familiar smile also seemed to lift an ache that he didn't realize had settled within his heart. He couldn't help but faintly smile in return as he saw Caleb knuckle his forehead before turning around and left.

* * *

_Setauket_

 

Peace, quiet, the gentle sounds of the lapping water, and the occasional collection of vital information was something that Nathaniel had not had in a while. What made this relative peace even better, in his opinion of course, was the fact that it was happening strictly under the noses of the British. In all of his years, working as diplomat for England before joining the revolution to ply his trade and knowledge to the most appropriate of persons, he's never thought he would actually be out in what Natalie had termed 'the field'. Working actively to collect information while feeding false ones to the British – it was a thrill that he had never thought he would see or do, especially with his age.

He was well aware though, that his wife was worried and uncomfortable with the danger they were surrounded by. However, she had also stated that she could not standby anymore, not with what had happened in the past few years, and continue to watch this dangerous world tear innocents apart. Thus she plied her craft in the administration and creation of medicines so that those who chose no side did not have to suffer at the hands who did.

As for his children, young Lottie's eyes were opening wider than he thought possible as she saw both the ugly and beautiful sides of the spycraft trade. Each night, he could hear her murmur prayers to the Lord, asking for forgiveness for each of the lies she had told strangers. It was the same thing he had gone though when he had been much younger and more naive – until he had stopped believing in the miracle of God's forgiveness and sought to right the world with the skills he had. David... little David still did not speak much, but Nathaniel could see it in his sons eyes – the young boy understood everything that was happening around him. David would neither condemn nor judge what his family was doing, but neither would he help or hinder them.

“I take it Boston was a little too fishy-smelling for you, sir?”

“Not so, Mr. Strong,” he said, bringing his gaze down from the partially tree-covered sky and towards where he saw Andrew Strong, dressed as a proper colonial, walk towards him. He had heard him crunch through the woods from afar, but only because their guards and those who patrolled the shoreline would not have appreciated Strong's actual nature.

“In fact, I do miss her,” he continued as he joined the assassin from the future. There was no mincing of his words when it came to describe what exactly Agent Andrew Strong did for his rebel government – he killed as ordered. “But the people here need the care of my wife's talents, and this is as good of any as a safe haven as ever.”

“If you don't mind me asking, sir, when is your wife making her next trip into Setauket?” Strong asked.

Nathaniel kept his composure as they climbed the small hill that would take them onto the lesser used roads and back to the house he, along with his family, Anna Strong, and Agent Strong shared. Those were the words that had never thought to hear, yet was expected, especially with what they had gathered and sent to New York a few days earlier. Those careful words meant that Strong had received a message of sorts from across the Sound.

“She has expressed visiting the blacksmith, Austin Roe first,” he answered. “We never got to thank him properly for the generous gift. I will be taking her tomorrow. Has the doctor in town run out of medicine? I wasn't aware that there was a fever of sorts sweeping through.”

“Not yet,” Strong answered. “Though I have heard that Mr. de Jong has taken a very strange liking to sprinkling the ale with certain herbs of a smoking nature. How his patrons say it makes it good when it still tastes like horse piss is something that I will never puzzle out.”

“How odd,” Sackett commented, frowning slightly. “I shall tell my wife. I know that you and Mr. de Jong have never gotten along, but if you would, would you please pass on the message that we will stop by his tavern in a few days?”

“I will,” the man said, nodding. “Though I hope to not tell you yet again, Mr. Sackett, but it is still my tavern. Those redcoats... Hewlett had no right to give it away.”

Nathaniel gave him a mild look. “I see,” he simply answered. However, what was discussed told him that they only had a few days to prepare the various traps. They also needed to inform Austin Roe of the developments. There was to be an invasion soon – not by the British, but by the Continentals.

The Battle of New York was imminent.

* * *

_New Windsor Camp, a few days later..._

 

It was late in the day when Washington returned from patrol, and had summoned Ben to his office. Assuming that it was for a briefing about the New York plans, for it seemed the most logical choice, given that they now had the numbers, he brought his notebook with the plans with him. He was still of the mind that attack New York, especially when there was clear reports and news of the Continental lines faltering south, was foolhardy. There was also clear intelligence on Yorktown and its fortifications – the mysterious words not withstanding – and the fact that rumors all around camp were indicating that many of the generals were not keen on attacking New York.

The numbers that Townsend and the others had provided proved it so. Clinton was not going to budge at all from New York. They needed to stop the British and rumored Britannian forces down south first before they could think about taking New York. Southwards was also the likely area where the two remaining Britannian assassins, who had the time devices upon them, were going to be. Still, an order was an order, and Ben knew that the only way to convince his commander of the folly of attacking New York was to present the numbers, the plans, and hope that it would be enough to convince him.

“...Richmond, Chesterfield, Weston, and now Guilford Courthouse...”

Entering, he was not surprised to see Hamilton already there, as he heard the aide's listing of the latest defeats down south trail to silence. There was, however, an unexpected guest present – his counterpart. When Benji had arrived back at camp, he did not know, but he was glad to see him. The short missive that his counterpart had written still stung slightly, but he had had time to sit down and mull over it – silently admitting to himself that he had been reckless in trying to recapture Arnold.

“Sir,” he greeted Washington.

“Have you brought your plan for New York?” his commander asked.

“Yes,” he said, going over to where Washington stood and laid out his notebook on the side before going to the map and arranging the blocks of red all along several forts along the north and south side. He also arranged the red blocks around Staten Island and the towns surrounding the city proper.

“Staten Island, Sag Harbor, along with Forts Franklin, Slongo, and St. George are the ones that we need to take and secure to ensure that our flanks are not exposed when Staten Island is taken,” he began. “Franklin is a haven for smugglers and privateers. Slongo is the granary that feeds New York and its surrounding areas. We can only assume St. George is the southern lookout point. Garrison for each of these areas does not exceed more than fifty or sixty men, though Fort St. George is the only one that Culper or the others could not infiltrate. We suspect that it is garrisoned with Britannian soldiers, and thus will be the last fort taken.”

He pointed and dragged his finger along the south side of Long Island, starting from where Fort St. George to Brooklyn Heights. “There are several earthworks dotted in this area – manned between seven to ten men at a time from the towns in the area. To ensure that Long Island is taken and secured, we will need to deceive the British scouts outside of the city first.”

He picked up several small blue blocks and placed them in a semi-circle around the outskirts of the city. “A regiment or two, strung out with pontoons and wagons that are decorated with straw men will traverse down the Hudson and into the valleys. With a good fog or rain as we have been having for the past few days, the British soldiers should fall for the deception.”

“I propose that we utilize Major Mclane and his forces to charge through Staten Island utilizing a similar method that General Sullivan performed back in seventy-seven. Though the Delaware Horse is small, they have the best marksmen to fell British soldiers as quick as possible. Culper Junior has stated that British soldiers are quartered there, and have deforested most of the island. Mclane and his soldiers will be able to take the area with minimal casualties.”

He then placed two blue rectangles on Staten Island, removing the red rectangles. Both of the blue rectangles were pointed parallel to the south end of New York City, saying, “This will also alert the British that we are potentially coming in from the south, and that the tip of the proverbial spear is pointed at their throat. This threat posed by the Delaware, along with the surrounding of the city will give the rest of the forces the necessary cover to launch an attack from Connecticut and Rhode Island.”

Several long rectangles of blue were placed on the coast of the two colonies before being pushed towards the northern edge of Long Island. “Fort Franklin should be taken with our men who are knowledgeable in seamanship. Slongo and other minor garrisons can be dealt with in a raiding manner. The crossing of the Sound should be done at night and as swiftly as possible so that we catch the British unawares in the early morning.”

“Trenton, then,” Ben heard Washington murmur.

“Yes, sir,” he answered. “A most inspired attack, and one that I had utilized when my men and I attacked Setauket.” He returned his attention to the map and continued to say, “Once the northern half of Long Island, along with Sag Harbor are captured, then we can concentrate on taking Fort St. George. For this to work, and to ensure that no British scout warns New York City, the attack across the Sound will have to be swift and coordinated for us to cut Long Island off.”

Several of the blue pieces were moved from their position in the center of Long Island and to the semi-circle around the city. “Once that is secured, we can move our forces to properly reinforce the strung out regiment and apply pressure. What is left of the French-Russian fleet in Rhode Island, along with what ships we can secure at Sag Harbor and Fort Franklin will station themselves at the mouths of the Hudson and East Rivers.”

“And the actual attack into the city, Major?” Washington asked as Ben looked up.

Biting the inside of his lip for a moment, he restrained himself. There were so many words he wanted to say to his commander about the folly of actually attacking the city. It was foolish to, and he hoped that his reasoning would be able to convince his commander to abandon the plan.

“According to Culper Junior, sentiment in the city after our evacuation back in seventy-six was not favorable towards us,” he began. “They resented us burning half of the area, even though it was not us who started the fire. Sentiment still favors the British, but it is my hope that the pressure from our forces surrounding the city will behoove General Clinton to surrender without forcing us to fight our way into the city. To do so, I fear, would cause many casualties on both sides – if not more – as it had cost us back in seventy-six.”

“So you do not have a plan to attack the city proper, and merely one to apply more pressure in the hopes that Clinton would be merciful?” Washington asked, though Ben was not sure if he heard disdain within his commander's tone.

“Yes, sir,” he said after a moment, stepping back and clasping his hands behind him. When Washington did not say anything after a few moments, Ben decided then that his gamble to provide a logical explanation had failed. “Sir,” he started, paused, and took a deep breath. “Your Excellency, everyone disagrees. The French, the Russians, Governor Jefferson – even your own Generals – they are all telling you the same thing. Sir, you must abandon this obsession with taking New York. The war can be won without it.”

If ever there was an impassive look on a face that Ben could not read the intent, it was Washington at the moment. He knew and had experienced his commander's rather fickle temper before, and thought that Washington would had at least shown some sort of reaction to his words. Instead, his commander merely asked, “How can it possibly be won without it?”

“If we strike in the south, it proves to the British that we are everywhere! That we cannot be cowed, or divided by the words of a traitorous General – and that we will never quit!”

He expected Washington to frown in anger, maybe even reiterate the fact that New York was the seat of power, the trophy needed to prove that the colonies were able to throw the yolk of the British off. What he did not expect was the question, “What are the minimum amount of men you need to ensure that there is sufficient pressure upon New York?”

“Uh, sir,” he stuttered slightly, as he brought his hands from behind his back and stepped up to the map again. “The Delaware Horse's pressure from Staten Island--”

“Without Major Mclane,” his commander interrupted.

“Pardon?” he questioned, confused. “Sir, I am unsure as to why--”

“The map that Miss Floyd brought with her, along with the words spoken by Colonel Laurens has been deciphered by Lieutenant General Washington,” Washington began, picking up several red rectangles and placing them along the coast, near the mouth of the Chesapeake and southwards to where other clusters of rectangles were already on the map. “Virginia is where the Army will be headed to. Yorktown, to be specific.” A massive amount of blue rectangles, including those along Long Island, and a few surrounding New York were taken and placed in a cluster around Yorktown.

“Sir,” Ben began, an uneasy feeling welling up in his stomach as he noticed that even Hamilton was looking a bit concerned. From his counterpart, Ben could not see any sort of expression or tick upon Benji's face that would give away to what the former Intelligence Officer felt. “What did Lieutenant General Washington say about the two words: 'Gauss' and 'fusion'?”

“To put it simply and plainly, Yorktown is a trap,” Washington bluntly answered, before pulling out a rather thick, multi-paged missive, unfolded it, and laid it on the maps.

“It was and is designed to lure both my counterpart and I into it, and is intended as a slaughtering field for the armies,” Washington continued. “Pressure grenades, similar to the ones that lined the southern area of West Point during our assault, are buried within the grounds there. Gauss cannons may be able to expose and detonate them, but only if we know where they are.”

Ben saw him slide several pages of the missive over to reveal the map that Mary Floyd had brought with her. Washington was not done yet as he said, “We have their locations, courtesy of Colonel Laurens' report made on the map. Contingency armaments built by Britannian forces embedded there with Cornwallis are what has been named as 'fusion cannons'. These are the same one that spat out that green bolt, that we were witness to when Lieutenant General Washington and her cohort first arrived at Monmouth. Major Jefferson has stated that to do such a thing without the necessary proper equipment, it is possible to build them using every available resource of the robotic horses and more than a few laser rifles. Many of the Britannian Army will be bereft of these deadly rifles.”

“Sir,” Hamilton protested, beating Ben to the punch, “even without the armaments, these Britannian soldiers are still dangerous. I feel that it is foolish to attack such a force, even with known locations of their 'traps'. The men are not prepared to fight something of this calibre.”

“And you are quite correct, Alexander.”

Ben blinked in surprise, at a momentary loss of words for he had not expected such a humble statement to issue forth from his commander's lips. Washington was sometimes irascible and mercurial, and at times, too stubborn to see another avenue to resolve a problem. The times in which he had clashed with his commander on a course of action exceeded the fingers upon his hands, but most of the time, he had presented his arguments with the numbers to back it up. He had thought Washington's pressing to take New York City was that of vanity – chosen in a manner to which was similar to what Arnold had somewhat succumbed to.

“Sir?” Hamilton questioned, looking as every bit surprised as Ben did. The only one to not even show a flicker of emotion was Benji, and the irrational part of him thought of it as downright suspicious.

“Lieutenant General Washington will be the vanguard, the tip of the spear in the southern campaign,” Washington explained, taking a white chess piece and placing it next to the red rectangles clustered around Yorktown. “This Army will move south to reinforce the lines, and present itself as a target for Director Andre. There is confidence from analysis by her Head of Intelligence and word from General Greene and others in the south that the two assassins who control the final two time devices that they will be within the area. Since there is confirmation that General Arnold's American Legion, specially trained to fight US Army forces will be in Virginia, it will leave New York vulnerable.” Ben caught his commander's glance over at him, as he asked, “And I ask you once again, what is the minimum amount of forces needed to ensure Long Island is cut off, and the villages that surround New York are taken, so that pressure can be applied to New York?”

“About five hundred men or so, sir,” Ben stated after a few moments of mental calculations within his mind. “As I said before, the forts are the ones that need to be dealt with in a swift and quiet manner. If we are not to hold them, raiding and destroying British supplies in those forts will severely deplete resources for any town garrisoned by British forces. Oyster Bay, Brooklyn Heights, Setauket, Mastic, Hempstead, Sag Harbor, Coram, and Montauk-Easthampton must be taken as soon as the forts are destroyed. Staten Island is another that must be dealt with a force who can move swiftly. Mclane's Delaware Horse are the only ones who have that ability.”

“Would Commander Creighton's people suffice in replacement for Mclane and his people?” Washington asked.

“Sir?” he asked, genuinely puzzled, for he was even more puzzled.

“Commander Creighton and his men will take Staten Island,” Washington stated, removing one of the two blue rectangles from Staten Island. “As you stated, this will indicate that we may be attacking from the south. The soldiers will attack and cut Long Island from any reinforcements that Clinton may be summoning as he sees this Army marching southwards. The diversionary force surrounding the north, east, and west side of New York will remain, but the western force will remain with the northern force until Clinton reacts and brings his forces out from the city.”

A cluster of red rectangles, lined up and down the New Jersey coast seemed to stream out of the city. “Once the majority of his forces are removed from the city, and Long Island is subdued, I will turn this Army around, allow Lieutenant General Washington to deal with the Britannian forces, and Arnold's specialized legion at Yorktown. This Army will attack Clinton. _Your_ seven hundred men are to ensure that they do not retreat into the city for shelter. We will lure Clinton out of his stronghold, and force the British to surrender in New Jersey, and Britannians in Virginia.”

“M-my seven hundred men?” Ben couldn't help but stutter. Even when the 2nd Light and 2nd Legionnaires had combined, their numbers were only a little over three hundred. To be in command of four hundred additional men... what battalion bordering on a regiment would his 2nd Light be merged with? Surely he had misheard--

“A Major cannot command a battalion of that size,” Washington began, interrupting Ben's racing thoughts. “Therefore, a promotion to Lieutenant Colonel is bestowed upon you, Colonel Tallmadge.”

“T-thank you, sir,” he managed to say after a moment of stupefied silence, but mentally kicked himself for continuing to stutter in surprise. Though his attention and focus was on Washington himself, he saw the nod of approval from Hamilton, and wasn't sure if he saw the ghost of a smirking smile from Benji. “I will endeavor to carry out this plan of attack to the best of my ability.”

“Mr. Tallmadge, if you would please brief the room?” Washington said after a moment, turning his attention to Benji, before Ben could ask where exactly were the four hundred hundred other men supposed to be drawn from.

“As we speak, the 2nd Legionnaires, along with Creighton's forces are on their way, sirs,” Benji spoke up, drawing their attention to him. “Per Lieutenant General Washington's orders, I have already made contact with Agent Strong via Morse code through the binoculars. He and the other agents on Long Island should have already begun setting traps and the like to help with the invasion and to hopefully minimize civilian casualties. Word has also already been sent to Colonel Rutherford of the combined Massachusetts-Rhode Island militiamen, and Colonel Webb of the detached Connecticut expedition. They will be assisting your forces in the taking of Long Island.”

“Though you are junior to Colonels Rutherford and Webb, this attack is of the most unusual circumstance. Your experience in leading a combined future-colonial force is the reason why I have impressed upon both of them that they should be under your command, Colonel Tallmadge,” Washington stated.

It was high praise, extremely high praise that Ben wasn't sure that he deserved, but he managed to keep himself together enough to nod and say, “Thank you, sir, for the opportunity.” Turning his attention to Benji, he asked, “Do you have Webb and Rutherford's numbers?”

“Rutherford has stated that his forces numbers are at two hundred and two men, all armed, well-trained, and experienced veterans of either the battles of Rhode Island, or either sieges of Boston. Webb's expedition will have two hundred thirty-four, with a hundred four of those men very experienced in crossing the Sound. Total numbers under your command, Colonel Tallmadge, number at just a little over seven hundred.”

“I will detail commands to Colonel Flagg to have his regiment strung out as the diversionary force around the city. His men will be the courier force to keep both the Continental Army and your battalion appraised of the status of Clinton and the British forces.”

“Sir, what of Yorktown and Virginia?” he couldn't help but ask, for it still bothered him that his commander was willingly engaging in a dangerous trap.

“That shall be detailed in the briefing with the other commanders,” Washington answered before glancing over towards Hamilton. “Colonel Hamilton, if you would please, summon General Wayne and the others. We have much to discuss about the southern campaign, and how to force a complete victory over this British-Britannian yoke.”

“As you wish, Your Excellency,” Hamilton said, with a proud and confident smile upon his face as he left.

Though still somewhat worried, Ben could not help but smile as well – this was the first time since the arrival of the people from the future that the eve of an unknown battle against possible future forces did not entirely frighten him. The numbers Townsend, Abe, Anna, and the others provided – he was confident, he knew and they knew what was at stake, even though it was obvious that Washington had played this plan close to his heart. There was a visible breaking of the fellowship between his commander and Lieutenant General Washington, but behind the lines, the fellowship was still strong.

They were going to not throw away their shot at victory. They would win – he was certain of that.

* * *

_Several Miles North of Yorktown, Early October..._

 

The pinging staccato of musket rounds pinging off of the trees and stone shattered the air around Abe as he instinctively ducked. He could feel the slivers of heated wood and stone strike him and the other redcoats within the ruins they had taken shelter at. He could hear Arnold bellowing his commands, forcing them to face the firing line of the mix of Continental and militiamen who had ambushed them at this place.

Twice now, he had attempted to slip away in the chaos that seemed to grip both sides, but both times, he had been forced back to his post. The sergeants that commanded their troops in the overall regiment were sharp – ensuring that no man tried to desert. He tried to calm his breathing down as much as possible, draw on what he had learned in both the Continental camp, and within the British army. As soon as he heard another volley from the militiamen fire, he and others who were ready ducked out.

He deliberately aimed high, and even before the smoke cleared, he fired. Just as a gust of wind carried the smoke away, he saw that his bullet had struck a thick tree branch. But it was not just any tree branch as he thought he saw someone familiar, someone who should _not_ have been here of all places, perched in the branches.

“Caleb?!” he whispered more to himself than anything else as he thought he saw the familiar bushy beard of his friend through the leaves within the tree. “Christ,” he couldn't help but say as the shock of him nearly killing Caleb, who by rights should be here, much less in a tree, coursed through him.

Somehow, he managed to snap out of his fugue as movement from below the line he had been aiming for showed that another volley was about to be unleashed. Ducking back into cover, just as he caught the tree-perched 'rebel' and confirmed that it was indeed, Caleb, he couldn't help but feel his heart thump in fear. Why was Caleb here? Had Ben sent him after him? If Caleb was here, was Ben or Washington here as well? I knew that where Caleb ventured, trouble was not far behind him.

The even more pressing thought now was how to get free, or at least let Caleb know that he, Abe, was stuck in Arnold's Legions, unable to find a way to escape from this carnage. As he reloaded his rifle, he took a quick look around and saw a scout run up to Arnold, who was pacing back and forth down the line, still roaring at those in the area.

Straining to hear what the scout was reporting, Abe couldn't even hear the news over the sounds of flintlocks being fired. However, the bellow of Arnold came not a few seconds later, “Move! Up and on the move! To King Creek! Double-time march before they close the flanks!”

Abe flinched as the whizzing sound of flintlock balls from the militiamen flew through the air, accompanying the order to retreat from this position. He was one of the few who had stood up with their backs to the stone walls, instead of stepping out. The strangled cries of those who had been a little less aware of another volley from the militiamen were not as lucky. Many of them fell down, wounded or dead.

Even though he was surrounded by the enemy, Abe knew that it was his only chance of escaping. He lunged towards the nearest soldier, catching him and righting him up as his fellow redcoats streamed past him in an orderly fashion. Dragging said soldier with him, he was soon among the few left behind. Glancing at the soldier he was using as a crutch and excuse to lag behind, he could see that the young man was clearly dying and would not last another few minutes.

Still, as he put on a determined face, he continued towards the 'escape' to freedom, dragging a dead weight with him. Agonizing minutes passed as he heard the faint pitter-patter of feet echoing within this vast, two-floor place. He couldn't tell what this place used to be, other than it looked like part of an aqueduct of sorts – perhaps a paper mill – other than it was quite overgrown in vegetation and crumbling stone. He didn't even make it two steps past the final step onto the first floor when a rush of soldiers poured into the large atrium.

Letting his rifle clatter to the floor as he gently put down the dead soldier he had been using as his excuse to escape, he then slowly stood back up, keeping his hands far and away. Many rifles were pointed at them, and behind those rifles were more than a few angry faces. More than half of those men who surrounded him were wearing a white fringe uniform that he didn't recognize at all.

“First Rhode Island, hold fire,” he heard a somewhat familiar voice command. Moments later, he saw Colonel Laurens enter the circle of soldiers that had formed around him.

Before he or the officer could say anything, the boisterous shout of, “I knew it!” was heard and to his delight, Caleb barreled through. Much to his embarrassment, Abe was picked up in a crushing embrace, noting that there were quite a few bewildered looks. “Christ on a pony, I knew that was you I saw! You nearly shot me!” Caleb exclaimed as Abe was finally put back down.

“Erm,” he began, gesturing to the soldiers still surrounding them. Their rifles were retracted though, as he saw Laurens wave his hand slightly. Seeing that it was now safe, Abe gingerly shed his hated uniform coat, though he kept the accouterments upon him and picked the dropped rifle back up. “Sorry,” he said, as Caleb slung an arm around him and guided him out of the circle. “I was aiming for the trees... didn't think anyone would actually be crazy enough to perch themselves within it.”

“Well, good thing you're such a terrible shot,” Caleb stated, giving him a hearty thump the back.

Abe frowned, for he didn't know whether or not he should be insulted by his friend's words. Granted he had deliberately aimed for the trees in a effort to not shoot down his allies, but he didn't think he was that bad of a shot. Deciding that it was not worth the bone to pick, he instead said turned his head slightly to see Laurens ensuring that his men were a little further behind enough to give both him and Caleb some privacy.

Sensing that he had something to tell the officer, Caleb also slowed down until Laurens caught up with them. “Arnold's headed to King Creek,” Abe stated. “I think he means to rejoin Cornwallis at the Yorktown fortification.” He patted one of the bags he had upon him, saying, “I have his numbers and armaments that he shipped with and acquired during his campaign here.”

Laurens nodded before saying, “Lieutenant Brewster, if you would see that Mr. Culper here is escorted safely back to the camp, please also inform the commanders that I will be taking my men and the First Rhode Island to see if we can cut Arnold off before he makes it over King Creek.”

“Will do, sir,” Caleb answered in a serious tone that surprised Abe.

As the soldiers under Laurens' command streamed out, he was left alone with Caleb. Soon it grew quiet and he asked, “Are Ben and the others here?”

“Old Georgie is here,” Caleb stated, grinning. “He's going to be really happy to hear about what you're bringing, and news that Arnold hasn't fled yet. He's been hellbent on capturing Arnold enough that he's all but given up and just stuck a bounty on the man's head.”

“Assassination?” Abe gaped, looking at Caleb in surprise.

“Five thousand Guineas,” Caleb stated, grinning.

He blinked, but as soon as the thought rose in his mind, he dashed it away. He was no assassin, and he had seen the aftermath of an assassin's life before him. He could not and would not do that to himself – especially with the knowledge of what happened to his descendants. “And Ben?”

“He's...” Caleb began, his voice unusually thick with emotion. “He's away, leading another campaign north of us.”

“Caleb, what's wrong?” he asked, concerned. “What happened?”

“I... I failed him,” his friend answered after a moment. “When he needed me the most, I failed him.”

Abe didn't know what to say in the face of such an admission. Sure the three of them in their friendship had ups and downs, but what sort of relationship like the one the three of them had didn't? They had argued, had laughed, and had watched out for each other throughout the years, though it had not escaped his notice that when Ben and Caleb had had their arguments about some opinion or another, it always sounded like an old married couple arguing, for a few hours later, everything would be back to normal – to laughter and jests. Something had happened during his time away from camp, and this time, Abe didn't know how he could help either of them.

“Whatever you did, I'm sure Ben will find it in his heart to forgive you, Caleb,” he said after a few moments, knowing that it was all he could say to try to keep Caleb's spirits up.

“Yeah,” his friend muttered before in a more usual boisterous tone, said, “Come on. Let's get you and your numbers back to old Georgie.”

~~~

_Meanwhile, at Shippan Point, Connecticut..._

 

The peek of a golden red-yellow sun was setting, casting its soothing colors across the sky, but there was no such calm within Ben's mind and heart. The entire reunited 2nd Light and 2nd Legionnaires were strung out along the coast, spanning from Newport, Rhode Island, to just a little past what was left of Norwalk. Integrated among the reunited forces were Webb's soldiers and Rutherford's militiamen. It was a force to behold and with the help of Webb's fishermen and whalers who would guide the boats swiftly across the Sound, they would cross as the Delaware had been crossed.

When Ben had initially proposed the crossing of the Sound at night and the attack on the northern half of Long Island at dawn, it had been well met and received. However, as he considered Abe and Townsend's words carefully, along with the numbers put forth by Anna and the others at Setauket, a dusk crossing would have to be attempted. The thick woods that separated the northern half of the forts along the coast with Fort St. George and the other redoubts that dotted the southern half was the perfect cover in darkness. In light, even at dawn, there would be one too many early risers to harvest crops, hunt, or patrol.

Cold steel and good knowledge of the northern forts was what led the change – for they could not risk burning any of the forts at night. Only after they secured the southern redoubts would they surround Fort St. George. Therefore, with that modification in the plan of action, he had put Webb in charge of leading the Sag Harbor cutoff, while Rutherford led the men towards Fort Franklin and the north-western portion of Long Island. Lieutenants Adams and Winters from the 2nd Legionnaires were leading the smaller strike forces to secure the northern redoubts before pushing to Coram to set up an advance.

Footsteps behind Ben caused him to turn slightly, only to see Alton-Tallmadge push through and stop next to Benji. The former commander of the Third Section had been under orders from Washington himself to escort Mary Floyd back to Wethersfield. Then, the man was ordered to join with the combined Connecticut-Massachusetts-Rhode Island battalion.

Before Mary had departed, she had privately and shyly asked him, Ben, permission to write to him. Though he was still feeling the lingering ache in his heart for Natalie, in the brief time he had gotten to know Mary, he had found her quite personable. It was not just the fact that they were from neighboring towns, or her beauty, but also her wit and bravery that she displayed. He had acquiesced to her request, knowing that pining after a woman he could never be with – especially one from the future – was futile, not to mention unhealthy.

Pushing aside his thoughts of Mary Floyd, he glanced over for a brief moment towards the unreadable Alton-Tallmadge. Though Ben wished that someone familiar, someone not of the future was standing beside him on this raid as someone he trusted to watch his back – Benji not withstanding – he knew that Abe needed Caleb's help more than he needed Caleb's help.

“Winters is reporting that a good fog is rolling in,” he heard Samantha chirp from beside him as he glanced over to see her putting her binoculars down.

He had not expected to ever see Samantha again, after the abrupt departure of Lady Washington and her forces from West Point. To his delight and worry, she had traveled up here with the 2nd Legionnaires. She had claimed that her Washington had sent her up here to assist in the raid, and in any courier duties needed, since she was familiar with the area as former handler for the Philadelphia agents within the region. Ben had not known what to make of that, other than he had to shove aside his worry – she had participated in the first Setauket raid and had been quite helpful in that raid.

He was also well aware that this was the first time that every single one of his descendants was together at the same time and same place with him. As determined as he was to protect them from harm while completing the mission, he knew that they thought the same – even the ever reticent Julian Alton-Tallmadge. The man he thought amoral and without conscience had merely silently prepared himself when he had arrived. Ben had even received verbal affirmation when he had asked if Alton-Tallmadge was willing to obey every order he was going to give on this attack.

“Sir,” Sergeant Pullings, a man of the 2nd Light, began while putting down his own binoculars that someone from the 2nd Legionnaires had given him prior to the 2nd Light-Legions' separation. “Sergeant Guzman of the 2nd Legionnaires reports that Colonel Webb and his forces are on their way.”

“All right, that's our signal to go,” he stated, nodding towards the enlisted man to begin gathering and loading the men and their accouterments within the boats. The noise of the men and women loading the whaleboats was quiet and orderly – much like how quiet they had been loading for the Trenton campaign. They would not be carrying live horses, food, or any other accessories across – only bayonets, sabres, knives, pistols, rifles, and fully charged robotic horses stored in their cubed form. The pistols and rifles – including the laser ones, would be left on the boats when they landed.

Forts Slongo and Franklin, Sag Harbor, and all of the other redoubts would be taken with cold steel. The gunpowder and laser weaponry would be saved for the assault on Fort St. George. They would also be stripping the British soldiers of their weapons to aid in the assault on the Britannian fort.

Ben made sure that all of the men and women that he could see on both ends of the horizon were on the boats and ready to go before he was the last one to climb in as he and a couple of other men pushed the boat the sandy shores. “Samantha,” he said, “signal Rutherford's group.”

“Done,” she stated after bringing up her binoculars and tapped out the appropriate Morse code signal down the coastline to where the edge most of Rutherford's forces were.

He had had no time to commit to memory the dashes and dots of the language, for it was not in plain English, but encoded using the Culpeper code book from the future, not the code book method that Ben had given all of his agents. Thus the need for signal agents as a relay up and down the coast via the binoculars. It was also how Benji had passed on the message of a raid about to happen soon to Andrew Strong. Though he wondered what traps Strong, Sackett, and Austin Roe had set up in Long Island, he trusted them to not spring it on the Continental forces.

Not a few seconds later, the oarsmen began to row as one of Webb's experienced tillers man directed those rowing. Both Samatha and Benji were sitting on either side of the whaleboat, binoculars out and observing through the fog-covered horizon. There were still British privateers to account for, since the Intelligence from the southern campaign only accounted for the British fleet.

If necessary, one of the robotic horses would be attached to the back of the boat so they could easily avoid detection with their swift maneuvering. Ben hoped that it would not have to be used, for he had heard and seen what happened to the boats who had had the converted robotic horse attached to them. Yet he was well aware that the fog in the Sound only afforded them so much visual protection. Sound protection – not such, even with the as quiet, but as swift as possible rowing.

On and on the oarsmen rowed, until the sun was well below the horizon, and they were completely surrounded by the chilly October breeze of the Sound. With preparation, a good heading, and a dose of luck, Ben was certain that the British soldiers on Long Island were not going see them coming.

* * *

_Outskirts of Setauket_

 

It was more of the uneasy feeling that woke Anna up, only for her to blink and settle her eyes on the silhouette of Andrew adjusting something on his arm before holstering something small at his side. At least she thought the movement was a holstering movement. The fact that he was not sleeping and was moving with purpose told her that the possible appointed time of the attack had come.

“Are they here?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper since both of them were well aware that there was a soldier quartered on the same floor as the bedrooms. Two more were downstairs, most likely awake in their night patrols, since she had heard their sometimes accidentally loud movements in the kitchens. Four more soldiers surrounded the house, rotating spots every so often. Anna herself had accidentally run into one of the outside patrolmen one night when she had had gone to the outhouse.

“I got the signal,” he murmured.

“Then I'll help as well,” she said, throwing the covers off while taking the dressing robe that was draped over the side of a chair and putting it on to ward the chill in the house away.

“No,” Andrew stated, taking three large steps to close the distance and grasped her by her arms to prevent her from moving towards where she had folded and placed her working dress. Standing this close to him, and with her eyes now fully adjusted to the darkness, Anna could see that he was not wearing the usual civilian colonial-era clothes, nor of the mottled-colored uniform that members of the US Army wore. Instead, he was wearing what looked like to be matte-black riding boots, breeches, vest, and shirt in black, with a jacket that was as heavy as it was black in color. It looked like an all-black version of a colonial military uniform.

When had he gotten the outfit was puzzling, but even more disappointing was what he said, “Stay here until I say it's clear.”

“But--”

“Anna, please,” he said, cutting her protests off, while sounding exactly like Selah. It didn't help that in the darkness, he looked almost like Selah. “I promised your husband that I would keep you safe. They're coming and I don't have time to waste arguing with you.”

She wanted to protest some more, but something within her descendant's tone made her stop. He had promised that she and the others would be able to help with the Continental Army's invasion that was about to happen, and he had done so by directing them to set up traps and the like for British soldiers. She nodded, but then said, “Don't... please don't kill them, Andrew. I don't know what's gotten into Caleb, but I don't want it happening to you as well.”

“I need to do what must be done,” he said, solemnly and without the usual humor within his tone.

He let go and quietly approached the door to the room. Pressing an ear against it, he listened for a few minutes before opening it without a sound. He peeked out and after looking around and listening for a few more moments, silently stepped out and closed the door behind him.

Not a single sound was heard, and all Anna could hear was her own heartbeat, thudding against her chest. Never had she felt as dismayed or frightened as she did now. She dared not move from where she was standing, even though she involuntarily shivered against the chill in the room. She was too afraid that any movement towards her getting her work dress would cause the floors to squeak and alert those downstairs that someone upstairs was awake.

Minutes after agonizing minutes, there was only the silence and the occasional hooting of an owl outside that surrounded her. Try as she might, she could hear nothing. What was Andrew doing to ensure that the soldiers quartered and guarding the house were not going to be a problem for them to begin springing the traps? As impatient and worried as she was, she managed to restrain herself from marching to the door and opening it – that is until she heard footsteps up the stairs.

Taking a step back and wrapping her arms around herself as a wash of fear settled over for a brief moment, the creaking noise continued, and miraculously, passed her door. It was traveling down the landing though, and a few moments later, she heard someone knock at the door. “Mr. and Mrs. Sackett, it's time.”

It was Andrew who had stated that and with that also came the knock on her door in a few moments. “Come in,” she said, smiling with relief as the door opened and Andrew peeked in.

She reached over and took up her dress from where it was as she heard Andrew say, “Coast is clear.”

“I will be ready in a few minutes,” she answered as she saw him nod and close the door. Hurriedly, she put the dress on and roughly tied her hair up into an acceptable manner. It was no matter if her hair was a mess at the moment – only that it was out of the way. What she and the others were to do next in springing the traps would loosen small strands and the like.

Stepping out, she saw the Sackett family emerge from their room as well, though Mrs. Sackett was carrying little David, who looked as if he wanted to fall back asleep. It was for the better though, that Mrs. Sackett and her son were not participating in this trap springing night. The two were to go to the blacksmith, Austin Roe's, shop for shelter. It was also with great reluctance, that Mr. Sackett had allowed Lottie to participate in tonight's activities. Had Mr. Alton-Tallmadge not been sent across the Sound, he would have taken over one of their roles.

“All right,” Andrew said, rubbing this hands together, as soon as Mrs. Sackett and David were on their way to the blacksmith's shop. “Time to give Hewlett and soldiers a wake up call, and grab their stash.”

It was also then, in the glow of the single candle that was set on the dining table that lit the entire place, that Anna thought she saw something dark and wet drip from Andrew's wrists. With a start she realized that it was blood. “Andrew! You're bleeding!”

“It's not mine,” he immediately stated and a second later, a quiet _snickt_ revealed two blood-covered blades being ejected out of their holsters. He pressed both palms against the table to retract the blades with a _click_ in the mechanism that held them.

“Andrew...” she began but knew that even if she admonished him for what he had done, he would not listen. She had thought they had grown close enough to understand each other, but she was again, hit with the fact that their eras and the morals that governed them were so far apart. Lottie's briefly surprised yet terrified look at the small puddle of blood on the table only hammered in that fact that Andrew Strong assassinated and killed for a living.

“The faster we do this, the less casualties,” Mr. Sackett said, shaking his head slightly. Whether that was in disapproval or something else, Anna did not know. “Come, we need to ensure that Hewlett and his men do not reinforce the Continentals attacking Fort Slongo.”

~~~

The redcoat that Ben had rammed his sabre into from behind jerked up for a moment before slumping back down, dead. Ben immediately slid his blade out, letting the dead body drop to the ground like a sack of flour and contained forward. All around him, his soldiers swiftly moved from man to man. Even before they got half-way into the camp, the British troops had finally roused themselves with the unusual sounds of people moving through camp and attempted to rally.

The surge was cut short though, as Ben swung his sabre to the side and down into the soldier who had attempted to charge at him. Whirling into the apex of the movement to the right brought him clear of the falling body. He could feel the heavy and warm flecks of blood sprayed from his sword and from the dead soldier land upon his face and clothes. Ignoring it, he dodged the attempted thrust of a bayonet at him and swung his sabre back up and into the side of the man, cutting into his arm. The man's gurgling scream into silence rang in his ears, as he grunted in an effort to loosen his blade. It was stuck and he was about to be dragged down by the falling dead man. Kicking the body away, he managed to loosen his sabre enough and yanked it out.

Flicking it slightly to get as much of the blood and sinew off, he continued on, spying an epaulet-fringed officer being surrounded by both Continental and British soldiers. A war cry escaped his lips as he broke into a run, his sabre held high as if it were a jousting lance, and charged in.

Whether it was the overwhelming crush of an invading force, or the fact that hellfire and fury were charging at them, the clear shout of, “We surrender! We surrender!” rang through the air.

Bloodlust for death, and the red hue that gripped men had not settled over Ben's eyes as he halted his blade mere inches from the officer who had shouted for the surrender. “Hold your blades! Halt!” he too shouted.

The sounds of the dying rattled off into silence, and breathing heavily, Ben accepted the cloth of one of his soldiers near him before wiping down his blade with said cloth and sheathing it. As the officer who had called for the surrender stepped forward, with his naked blade in his hands in an offering of surrender, he too stepped forward. “On behalf of General George Washington, commander of the Continental Army, I accept your surrender,” he stated, taking the blade, just as he saw Samantha and Benji approach out of the corner of his eyes. On his other side, he realized that the soldier he had taken the cleaning cloth from was none other than Alton-Tallmadge.

Putting that thought aside, as he fully accepted the blade of the officer, a great cheer rose from his men. He let them continue their hearty cheer – they deserved it, after all, this was the first battle against the British that they had claimed victory without any sort of unusual weaponry at hand. Everyone, including those from the future, had used cold steel, and it was proof that the war could be won without the intervention of fantastical weapons and the like.

However, even in the midst of the victory, the cheers suddenly turned into shouts, as Ben turned and saw a commotion of sorts happening near the main entrance to the fort. He was immediately pushed behind not only Benji, but also Alton-Tallmadge and Samantha. Thoroughly annoyed by the action, he batted his counterpart's hand on his arm away and made his way past them – just in time to see a redcoat fleeing through the torch-lit entrance and into the inky night.

Ben saw Samantha draw back her arm, readying a throwing knife. However, before she could loose the blade, the echoes of a strangled cry that was horribly silenced with a wet gurgle were heard. In the darkness, he saw the fleeing redcoat fall and someone stepped over the body and forward. Danger screamed in his senses. However, before any of them could move to stop the intruder who had killed the redcoat, they heard a voice in the darkness call out, “Stop! Don't throw anything! It's me, Andrew Strong!”

“And Captain Evans!” another voice belatedly called out, sounded a little bit put out.

Two figures approached the edge of where the outer torch light of the fort could reach, revealing themselves to indeed, be Captain Matthew Evans of Rutherford's militiamen, and Andrew Strong – albeit the future agent was wearing a strangely all-black version of a colonial uniform. Ben holstered his sabre, which had been half-way drawn, as he heard the others behind him also sheathe their weapons. Walking forward, he nodded at Evans saying, “Captain Evans. Well met.” Turning slightly to Strong, he then said, “And you as well, though your uniform... you look like a wraith.”

“Gave me a scare as well, sir,” Evans supplemented.

“That's the point, sirs,” Strong answered. “Perfect for blending in, in this dark of a cloudy and moonless night.”

“Really, Andrew?” he heard Samantha say before anyone else could say a word. “I can't believe you're dressed like him. Where's your hood? Don't tell me you're dual-wielding blades as well?”

“Hey, someone's got to pay tribute to one of the best video game series created,” the agent lightly answered. “Besides, it's not like anyone but us folks who've played the series know who Ratonhnhaké:ton is.”

“Next thing you know, old Georgie's going to have that stupid Apple in his hand,” Samantha grumbled, but a quick glance at her showed Ben that there was quite an amused glint in her eyes.

“I take it Setauket has been taken, Captain?” Ben interrupted, shoving his confusion at what was being exchanged by the two future agents to the side, and getting to the matter at hand as to why Evans was present. While he had wanted to take both Fort Slongo and Setauket himself, Ben knew that it was incredibly inefficient to do so, and thus, assigned one of Rutherford's officers to ensure that the British troops quartered in the town were subdued. Slongo was the larger of the targets, and thus required more finesse in the execution of the plan.

“Yes, sir,,” the man answered, “but Major Hewlett refuses to surrender to me. He states, and I quote 'I will be granted the dignity of surrendering to an officer of my equal or above rank.'”

Ben frowned. He knew Hewlett as a fair and just man – the first invasion and successful taking of Setauket and the actions that happened during the truce proved it. However, he supposed that even as honorable as Hewlett was, there was still a certain amount of pride within the man. “Fine, lead me to where he is then,” he stated. He eventually was going to go into or near enough to Setauket to see what weaponry were going to be salvaged.

“Lieutenant Ford,” he called out to the nearest officer within his sight. The young man came over at his bidding and smartly nodded. “Inform Captain Jennings to take command of the securing of the prisoners, and tally the inventory of weapons until I return. The men and women are also to rest for an hour at most on shift and prepare to move out as soon as Captain Winters sends word.”

“Yes, sir,” the young officer answered.

“I'll also remain here, sir,” Alton-Tallmadge unexpectedly stated. Ben gave the man a shrewd look, before realizing that it was for the better to not spring him upon Hewlett, and nodded.

Major Hewlett had just enough shred of honor to send people out to look for Anna and the four missing persons a few years ago. The reports from the Long Island agents stated as much, and he supposed that it was for the better to let Hewlett rest with the fact that he had not failed in his task in trying to find the four missing persons. It may also make Hewlett more amenable in surrender, if he were not subjected to the people from the future as much as it had consumed his, Ben's, own life.

With the delegation of command complete, Ben turned and gestured for Captain Evans to lead the way. Though their trek through the woods and fields that separated Fort Slongo from Setauket was in the dark, but Ben was not afraid of ambush. Not only were Benji, Samantha, and Agent Strong walking next and behind him, along with Captain Evans, he was confident that the Continentals had completely secured the area. As they passed through a clump of trees, he saw and heard some grumbling shouts up ahead. There was also something dark that rose from the ground, as if it were a giant monolith of sorts.

The shadow of several people were also standing around it, but the drew themselves to attention as Evans said, “Ho and clear, Sergeant!”

“Captain Evans. Colonel Tallmadge, sirs!” the soldier nearest to them stated, as Ben and the others drew closer. The groans and indignant, but muffled shouts resolved them to be British soldiers. The giant square-like shadow still couldn't be discerned, but considering the lay of the land and the maps he remembered perusing and planning with, he knew that there was a redoubt somewhere between Slongo and Setauket. This looked like one.

It certainly had the shape of one, except that its walls were higher than he expected – until he realized as his eyes continued to adjust to the darkness, that the tall walls were not earthen walls. These were similar to portcullis, except tall enough so that a man would fall and break his limbs if he tried to climb up and over it. There were also iron or wooden spikes – he could not tell for it was too dark – lining the inside of the four-walled portcullis-like barricades.

Many British soldiers were trapped inside of their redoubt, crammed into it as if one would cram salted fish for shipping across the ocean. “What...” he began.

“Traps, sir,” the sergeant stated in an all too excited and delighted tone. “The redcoats kept my brothers on the _Jersey_ under such conditions, and we found these poor sods in this conditions and have left them be. Let them have a taste of their own foul medicine!”

“We have to give thanks to some of the Patriot populations here,” Evans said, gesturing to Agent Strong who merely nodded. “There are many of these kinds of traps set all around the island. It has kept us from losing or scattering the men to find and flush them out like a foxhunt.”

Ben had managed to keep himself from flinching at the mention of the ship, remembering reading several accounts of just what conditions the prisoners of the British were kept under. His own brother had died on that ship, and even though he remembered Washington dictating that a strong missive be sent to British High Command for the treatment of Continental prisoners, the conditions still had not improved. He wanted some pleasure, some satisfaction at seeing these soldiers suffer the same horrible conditions, especially out here in the elements, but could not find it.

“We will keep them temporarily here, Sergeant,” he answered after a moment. “Only until Long Island is secured. Then we will quarter and process them properly. We will not bow or stoop down to what they did to our brothers, friends, or family. Revenge will not bring any of them back.”

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant answered, though Ben could hear the slight resentment in his tone.

He ignored it, and gestured for Evans to continue to lead them on. He could not offer any other words to the enlisted man, other than it was to each that one had to make their own peace with the dead. Revenge for the death of his dearest friend was what drove him into war, and into this mess – his own lessons had already been learned and sacrifices paid. He was tiring of war, and hoped that with what he, Washington, and the other commanders were doing at the moment would bring about a swift and decisive victory.

Eventually, at the edge of the town, they procured horses, and as they made their way to Whitehall, Ben had taken a brief glance up at his father's church. There were a few torches lit outside of it, and he had seen a few Continental soldiers moving things about within the place. His father's church was once again, freed from its heathen duties as a British command post, but the town itself was no longer welcoming. Twice his forces had invaded – and even though it had been taken with little bloodshed, to stay here once the war ended would be uncomfortable.

Ben focused back on the present as Whitehall loomed before them. Continental soldiers, armed with the rifles and accouterments stripped from the British soldiers who had been guarding the house, patrolled the area. Three clustered of bound and tied British soldiers were near the front of the house, but other than looking slightly bruised and trussed up, none of the soldiers looked too harmed. He could feel the heat of their glare on him as he followed Evans into the magistrate's home.

Turning right and into the first room, he saw that Hewlett was not alone. Judge Woodhull was there as well, though it looked as if both men had been roughly awoken from sleep – Hewlett didn't even have his wig on, and Judge Woodhull was wearing a tatty sleeping robe over his clothes. The soldiers that were within the room stayed where they were, but unlike most of the others, these few were armed with pistols and rifles – all to ensure that Hewlett did not attempt to escape or leave.

“Major Hewlett,” he greeted, his tone neutral and without any malice.

“Lieutenant Colonel Tallmadge,” the man answered, as if testing out both Ben's name and rank.

“Your sword, sir,” he stated, getting right to the point. He was not in a mood for conversation, nor did he have time to waste in such frivolities.

“I take it Fort Slongo was taken as well?” Hewlett asked as Ben saw the man retrieve his sword from his side and present it to him.

Taking the sword, he ignored the question and said, “On behalf of General George Washington, commander of the Continental Army, I accept your surrender. Both you and Judge Woodhull will remain here until it is decided what to do with you.” He then turned to Evans and before Hewlett or Judge Woodhull could say a word, said, “Captain Evans, at first light, direct the townspeople to the church and give them back their weapons--”

“But sir--” Evans spluttered.

“Their freedom and liberties were taken from them, Captain,” he stated, holding up his hand to silence the man. “It's time we gave it back to them, again. Have your men also start dismantling the fortifications around the church. Spike the cannons – the people of Setauket and this town itself will no longer be fought over in this war. Neither will the continued desecration of their ancestors be tolerated.”

Ben had directed that last comment towards Hewlett, but unsurprisingly, the man did not even twitch at his accusations. His mother's gravestone had not been used in the fortifications, as according to Abe it had not been made of a strong stone material. Yet, he still felt for those who had given into British demands to use their gravestones. Without another word to Evans or the others, he turned and left.

The second Battle of Long Island had started with a few victories, but he knew that it was far from over. Come morning, he and the Northeastern Battalion would face their greatest challenge yet – taking a purely Britannian-held fort: Fort St. George.

* * *

_Yorktown, Virginia, morning..._

_2000 Yards from the British Command Post_

 

Howling winds blew across the battlefield, causing men on both sides to constantly readjust their aim with both musket, laser rifles, and cannons of either type. However, no driving rain accompanied that howling wind, as it gusted again, nearly blowing Abe over from his hurried filling of the gabion. As much as the wind was also seemingly keeping the British fleet from reinforcing the shorelines off of the York River, it also keep the French-Russian fleet from doing the same to their allies.

“Fire!” another of the artillery captains bellowed as the deafening sounds of the 18-pounder cannons ejected their payloads, despite the buffeting winds. _Shtonk-shtonk-shtonk_ , the unusual sounds of the Gauss cannons upon the battlements sang. The whistles of the deadly balls of iron joined in the cacophonous air, and the _thump-thump_ of their impact on their presumed targets were heard moments later.

He had expected the same retaliatory cannonade, the cruel sounds of whistling death to be hurtled at them. However, after a few minutes of crouching and bracing himself against his overturned gabion, nothing announcing that death was upon them was heard. All he could hear was the driving noise of the wind. He could see other artillery commanders waving their hands before crossing their arms, and realized that someone had sent up the order for the shelling to stop.

It seemed that the cannonades from the British side that had been expected were also stopped. If ever more, and with each passing moment, the wind storm was increasing, driving men to crouch or hide behind the earthen barriers that they had erected. More than a few and slid down to where he was crouched, Caleb included, trying to find some purchase on the ground as a rather strong gust blew through. To his slight horror, that gust of wind had also partially lifted one of the nearest 18-pounders they had from its earthen battlement perch.

He didn't hear the cannon or trail slam back down as he heard someone hoarsely and faintly call out, “Your Excellency!”

Turning slightly as raised a hand to partially shield the side of his face from the loose dirt, dust, and pebbles being lifted by the wind, he saw Washington of all people, on the ramp that would lead up to the battlements. There was an officer – Colonel Hamilton – next to Washington, as if trying to prevent him from going up to where Abe and the others were forced to stop their shelling of the enemy, and reinforcements of the battlements.

Washington did not seemed to be deterred though, and neither did Lady Washington, who had also come up from behind her counterpart. Being this close to the eerie white-haired, red-eyed woman, even in such a horrendous windstorm, sent chills down Abe's spine. He had read Arnold's declaration, seen Lady Washington sitting in the gallery during Ben's court-martial, but had only once interacted with her. That had been on the night of Arnold's defection, and even then, the lighting from the candles in the tent had softened her severe facial features. If there was only one thing he had to agree with on Arnold's declaration, it was the description of Lieutenant General Georgia Washington – at this very moment in the heat of a battle, even with clay dust obscuring their visibility towards the enemy – she looked every inch the fearless White Devil incarnate.

But that was it – that was all he agreed with. Her presence alone seemed to emanate courage, and the orders she gave were confident, and dare he say it, an inspiration to not only him, but the gun crews up all along the battlements. He watched as both she and Washington stopped just short of cresting the battlements as Lady Washington pulled out her future-spyglass, while Hamilton silently handed his own future-spyglass to Washington. Both commanders were seemingly immovable and indomitable against the fury of the windstorm.

Washington aimed his spyglass out towards where the British Command Post was a little over two-thousand yards away. The command post where General Cornwallis and his command staff were, was much too far for even the Gauss cannons to reach. The future-cannon named 'Little Hans' was aimed towards the York River as a major deterrent for British ships to fire upon them, but considering just how heavy it was, and just how strong the winds were lifting even wrought solid iron and brass up from the ground, Abe didn't even think 'Little Hans' could be moved at the moment.

Curiously, Lady Washington had not aimed her spyglass towards the British outpost, but instead, looked _up_. Abe was not the only one to follow her actions as he blinked, shielding his eyes from the stinging dust and dirt swirling around. “Something is coming through, sir!”

Bewildered by her words, Abe looked back down as he saw Washington briefly lowered his spyglass, nearly shouting his words, “Friend or foe?”

“Unknown, sir!” she shouted her answer. “It is big though. Larger than anything--”

The clap of thunder that seared through the air, along with the scorching heat that swiftly followed it was louder and hotter than anything Abe had ever heard or felt. He automatically clapped his hands on his ears, as did most people around him, but it was too late – all he could hear for the next few moments as the ferocious winds abruptly died was a high-pitched ringing sound. There was no bright flash of light accompanying the thunder as Caleb had described with the arrival of Lady Washington and her soldiers. Instead, the wind-carried debris just fell, showering everyone and everything around them with a fine layer of clay.

He could hear muffled voices, but as he blinked and looked over, he saw that both Washingtons were shouting. They were gesturing for the men to take up arms again, as he saw Hamilton and a few others who had seen or heard the orders more clearly, spring into action. There was only one word that he recognized that was issuing – fire. They had to fire the cannons now.

Before he could get up, he was knocked over and found his face pressed rather hard into the ground. He tried to knock off the weight on top of him, but before he could do so, the sharp, heated flecks of gouged dirt and the like pepper the air above him and the other person who weighed him down. A moment later, he was hauled up and came face to face with the bushy-bearded Caleb. However, Caleb's eyes weren't on him as he saw them widen for a fraction at something behind him. He turned to see that a shimmering gold concave shield – for the lack of a better term – of sorts, was in front of the two Washingtons and Hamilton.

The three had been protected from the volley, though neither commanders wasted time as soon as the attack had died. They began issuing more orders, and though muffled and incomprehensible to Abe, he understood the gist of it. Before he could run to assist one of the cannons, he felt Caleb tug him on his grime, dirt, and soot-covered shirt sleeve. He saw his friend gesture with a jerk of his head towards two oblong pods – two deployed and unlimbered Gauss cannons.

They were skewed slightly to the side, having been displaced by the windstorm. It was clear that the two US Army soldiers who had been manning the cannons had climbed out during the windstorm - most likely not wanting to be knocked off the precarious perch on the battlements during such a storm. Unfortunately, the two soldiers were also dead from that volley that Caleb had bodily protected him from.

No one else was approaching the Gauss cannons, and there were no US Army soldiers free that were nearby. All were in their own Gauss cannons, firing away. Seeing no other choice, he followed his friend, as he heard Caleb's muffled shout, “Two yokes, like tilling a field! Button under the fingers fires it!”

“Got it!” he shouted back, and climbed into his pod. Immediately, silence enveloped him. Both his left or right side was exposed to the elements, and there was no door to close, which made the sensation ever more stranger. In front of him was a glass so smooth, and so clear that he felt as if he were in a dream. Such a device, such a thing could not exist – yet here he was, sitting in something so foreign that it made his heart flutter in fright and excitement at the same time.

There were many things being displayed on the smooth glass, but the circular thing at the center of the glass with a tiny dot seemed to be centered on the middle of the mass of people who had arrived with the horrendous storm. With a start, he realized that the soldiers moving in the glass were not Britannian soldiers – they were moving _towards_ the British-Britannian fortification. His view within this cocoon was so close that whatever the true function of this device was, was showing him numerical designations wherever the circle was pointed.

“722,” he murmured to himself, looking at the numerical designation that popped up on the glass as the circle. The dot in the middle of the circle hovered over the burnished-clad soldier who was directing the troops with gestures. A few other numbers, such as 755, 716, and 777 also popped up around the 722 designation. Though he was extremely terrified being inside of this contraption, he slowly breathed in and out as the relative silence allowed his hearing to recover enough that he could hear the pings, _shtonk-shtonk_ , and booms of the cannons being fired outside of his cocoon.

It was the numerical designation that gave him a momentary pause in his commandeering of the Gauss cannon. He had not been at Monmouth, had only seen the robotic horses from afar, but he had see the numeric designation etched onto numerous horses. Most prominent of them was Lady Washington's horse – 711, Ben's counterpart – designated 721, and Caleb's counterpart – 725. It could not be a coincidence that this particular horse rider leading the laser-and-smoke filled charge across the battlefield to secure the 1800 yard mark was designated 722 – Abe's own designation from the code book.

The digits in the field of view around the circular target – he was sure it was a target mechanism of sorts as one would fire a bow and arrow at a circular target – changed to names. 755 became [Maj. J. L. P. Archer], 716 was [Col. L. Hattersfield], and 777 was [Col. A. W. Tran]. To his surprise 722's name was [Gen. C. T. W. Lee].

“General Lee,” he whispered in shock. The US Army's 722 robotic horse rider was not a descendant of his.

Every future-person he had talked to back when he had been at the West Point Camp, to get a sense of what had happened, had spoke of US Army General Charles Lee as awe-inspiring, if not more than Lieutenant General Washington. However, he had heard not just from Ben, but from reading the gazettes, that the Continental Army General Charles Lee of this era was a disgraced officer who had turned tail at the Battle of Haddonfield. How the hell did the commander of the entire eastern division of the future US Army get here, and why now? He was among those that Ben had told from a previous briefing that no more help from the future was coming – which meant that no more Britannians either.

“U.S. Army Eastern Command, General Charles Lee,” he couldn't help but repeat his words, just as something caught his eyes. He immediately pulled the yokes, finding it wildly responsive to his command – more so than a tilling yoke. Caleb was right – it was just like commanding oxen or horses to go where he needed the cannon to go, as his fingers wrapped around the yokes, settling naturally where there were divots within the grips.

He didn't have time to focus and aim – he just had to make sure he did not hit any persons of the unexpected reinforcements to the US Army. As soon as the circular target passed over what looked to be something sinister and unnaturally bright on the British-Britannian side, he pressed the two buttons under where his index fingers were resting.

_Shtonk!_

The bolt that lanced impacted the area he had been aiming for, and he continued to fire, that is until something cracked within the envelope of his cocoon, saying, “Cannon Fifty-Two, hold fire!”

Abe blinked, that was not Lady Washington's voice. That was a man's voice and it sounded so eerily familiar that he immediately let go of the yokes. A chill swept over him – it felt as if someone had walked over his grave, as he looked down at the smooth glass to see that General Lee had halted his troops. Something golden swept up in front of the formerly advancing US Army, as the haunting, familiar voice echoed in the cocoon, saying, “Cannon Fifty-Two, fire at that target again.”

“W-what?” he called out.

“God fucking dammit, Cannon Fifty-Two, just--”

“Why do you sound like my brother?! Why do you sound like Thomas?!” he suddenly shouted, looking up and around, trying to find where exactly the disembodied voice was coming from. “Who are you and where are you?! What manner of a ghost are you?!”

“Identify yourself, Cannon Fifty-Two!” the voice commanded, causing Abe to jump at the harshness of the tone.

“Uh,” he began, with the jolt finally loosening the surprised fear that gripped his heart. “Abraham Woodhull, Continental Army.”

Silence greeted his answer before the disembodied voice that sounded so much like his brother came back in a much calmer, but still strongly commanding tone, saying, “I, General Charles Thomas Woodhull Lee, am ordering you, Agent 722, to fire on that target once again. Do you acknowledge?”

 

~*~*~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't want to rehash the Ben and Washington yelling at each other scene, or the Simcoe hunting down Abe at Virginia scene, mainly because I loved those two scenes and didn't feel that I could do either of them justice in this story.
> 
> Also, FYI, the 'Ratonhnhaké:ton' reference is a reference to Assassin's Creed III, the game within the Assassin's Creed series that takes place before and during the American Revolutionary War. AC3's Tyranny of King Washington is the alt-history of that alt-history game.


End file.
